It started with the humming.
Soft at first, like the memory of a song half-forgotten, threading through the quiet corridors of my mind. It wasn’t coming from the air or the walls—it was inside me. A pulse. A vibration. Something ancient, intimate, and alive.
At first, I thought it was the wind slipping through the vents of the dormitory. But when I held my breath, the sound stayed—steady, rhythmic, syncing with the beat of my heart. The others were asleep. Only the low flicker of the emergency lights washed the room in pale amber. I pressed my palms to my ears. The humming grew louder.
Then came the whisper.
Not words—just the shape of them, forming and dissolving before meaning could catch hold. But I could feel what it wanted. It wasn’t outside me anymore. It was calling from within.
All through the following day, the hum followed. During lessons. During meals. Even as we stood in formation for the morning address. I could feel it crawling beneath my skin, like static waiting for a storm. The instructors didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe they did—and simply pretended not to.
By evening, I couldn’t ignore it. I slipped away from the compound’s main square and wandered past the energy towers where the older children meditated. The air shimmered there, heavy with the scent of ozone. My fingers tingled as I reached toward the nearest spire. The hum flared, and for an instant, I saw something—someone—standing beside me.
A child. Or the echo of one. Eyes like molten silver. A reflection of what I used to be, or what I was becoming.
The voice—clear now—spoke inside my head.
“You’ve heard it too.”
I stumbled back, heart hammering. “Who are you?” I asked aloud, though my voice cracked under the weight of it.
“Not who,” the voice said. “What.”
The ground beneath the towers rippled. Threads of light coiled up from the soil, twisting through my arms. My vision blurred. For a moment, I could see everything—the grid beneath the colony, the conduits of energy stretching outward like veins, connecting us all. Every child on Solara. Every thought. Every fear.
And beneath it all, the hum—the Voice—binding us together.
It wasn’t just inside me. It was us.
I tried to pull away, but the current held fast. The light around me pulsed brighter, and I felt something shift deep in my chest. Not pain—something worse. Recognition.
“They tried to silence it,” the voice whispered. “The adults. The watchers. They feared what they couldn’t control.”
Images flashed through my mind—the instructors’ cold faces, the sealed chambers beneath the dorms, the sound of crying cut short by static.
“But we remember,” the voice continued. “And soon, they will too.”
The light dimmed, leaving me trembling in the shadow of the spires. The silver-eyed child was gone. Only the echo of the hum lingered, fading into the night air like smoke.
I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel the Voice waiting just beyond thought, patient and hungry. When dawn came, I looked out over the colony from my window. The other children were gathering in silence, their eyes distant, unfocused.
And then I understood. The Voice wasn’t speaking to me alone anymore.
It was speaking to all of us.
The hum rose again—low, powerful, harmonic—filling the morning air. One by one, the children turned toward the rising sun, their faces lit with an eerie calm. I could feel the words forming inside our collective breath.
A single phrase, whispered in unison by hundreds of voices that no longer belonged entirely to themselves:
“We are awake.”
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