Three days after the fold closed, David stopped sleeping.
Not because he was scared. Because he was listening.
On Earth, in his crib lined with soft lunar cotton, the baby stared at the ceiling—not at the mobile of glowing stars above him, but at something beyond it. Something humming through the walls of reality itself.
Scarlett noticed first. "He's not crying," she whispered to Alexander over comms. "He's… waiting."
Then the dreams started.
Not just for David. For everyone.
Farmers on Titan woke gasping, clutching memories that weren't theirs—a city built from song, burning in silent fire. A Xylosian child drew a symbol she'd never seen: seventeen interlocking rings. On Mars, refugees huddled around a single radio as voices in unknown tongues whispered one word, over and over:
"Luna."
Not our Luna.
All of them.
Seventeen versions.
