"Again!"
The little girl tugged at her father's sleeve, eyes bright like the stars outside their cracked window.
"Tell me the one about the lost giants!"
Her voice danced with laughter. She rolled over the blanket, flailing her legs in the air, a mess of wild hair and pure joy.
Her father sighed dramatically, pretending to resist.
"You like that one too much."
"I like you too much," she giggled, pulling the corner of his shirt like it was sacred.
He chuckled and gave in, shifting on the floor beside her.
"Alright then. Just once more. But you better sleep after this, Fónty."
"Promise!"
The candle between them flickered gently. Shadows swayed on the wall like ancient spirits listening in.
His voice grew softer, slower, more like the beat of a tired drum.
"A long, long time ago… people didn't have powers. No flames in their hands. No voices that could move stone. No monsters either."
She wrinkled her nose. "That's boring."
He smiled. "That's the point. It was quiet. Simple. But then… some people started to wake up."
She blinked. "Like… they were sleeping?"
He shook his head. "No, not like that. They woke up in here..."
He touched her chest with two fingers.
"...and remembered what they really were."
"What were they?" she whispered.
"Something more. Something old. But when that awakening happened…"
"There was a—"
—
The door creaked.
She was older now. The blanket was gone. The candlelight replaced by dim grey skies.
Her father's coat was already on his shoulders. His back faced her.
"We didn't finish the story!"
Her voice cracked, hands reaching.
"Dad! Wait! You didn't finish it!"
His fingers paused at the handle… but he never turned back.
The door slammed shut.
"Dad!"
—
Fóntas jolted awake.
Her hand was reaching upward, fingers curled as if still chasing something just out of reach.
Her voice echoed in the silence: "...Dad."
A sharp breath. Then stillness.
She stared at the cracked ceiling of her room, the last bit of dream slipping like dust through her fingers.
The metal roof above let through beams of light dim, harsh, artificial. Not sunlight. Not warmth.
She sat up slowly. No tears. No sighs. Just the quiet scrape of resolve.
Gone was the little girl. No joy. No wild hair flailing. Only a scarred woman dressed in scavenged gear, a rusted pipe leaning against the wall beside her.
She stood and ran a hand over her face, brushing the dried grime and faint oil smudges from her cheeks.
Another day. Another hustle. Another lie.
That wasn't real, she told herself. That was a long time ago.
But her hand still trembled as she picked up her gear and stepped out into the ruins of District 7.
The wind greeted her with dust and static. Towering metal spires and slumped buildings loomed like the skeletons of titans.
She made her way to the tram rails, where salvage crews gathered. Most were older, bulkier. She didn't speak to any of them. They didn't ask questions. She liked it that way.
A masked supervisor checked names off a rusted tablet. When it came to her, he just nodded.
"You're late, Fóntas."
She grunted.
"Had a bad dream."
He didn't respond.
She boarded the tram. Sat in the corner. Watched the city blur past.
Below it all, buried in the hum of old engines and the moan of metal towers, was a single, cursed memory:
There was a...