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Rory didn’t look up, but his humming grew slightly louder—a positive sign. After a moment, he pushed one of his metal pieces toward Thraxar.

The Cire accepted it, examining the small component with genuine interest.

“This is part of a calibration node from a navigation system,” he said. “An obsolete model, but precisely manufactured.”

Rory hummed absently, arranging the remaining pieces in a spiral pattern. Thraxar placed the piece he was holding at what appeared to be the logical next position in the sequence, and Rory’s fingers fluttered with pleasure.

Her hands stilled on the fabric as she watched them. Very few people on Earth had ever bothered to understand her son’s behaviors, much less participate in them—his father certainly hadn’t—and they’d been even less forgiving on the asteroid. They’d called him defective, broken. Yet Thraxar was engaging with her son on his own terms without judgment or frustration. Her chest suddenly ached.

She returned to her work, cutting and shaping one of the smaller garments into a shirt that might fit Rory. The fabric responded beautifully to the tools, edges sealing seamlesslywhere she joined them. As she worked, she found herself humming along with Rory’s tune.

“This arrangement resembles the Ciresian constellation Verek,” Thraxar said, indicating the pattern Rory had created. “The Hunter’s Spear.”

Rory looked up at him, then back at the pattern, adding another piece to extend one arm of the spiral.

“Yes, precisely,” Thraxar nodded. “That completes the formation.”

She held up the finished shirt, pleased with how it had turned out. The fabric’s original deep green color remained, but she’d managed to shape it to Rory’s proportions. “Rory, would you like to try this on?”

He glanced up, then returned to his constellation, clearly not ready to abandon his project.

“The pattern is significant to him,” Thraxar observed. “It would be disruptive to interrupt it before completion.”

She smiled, setting the shirt aside. “You’re right. I’ll work on something else while he finishes.”

She selected another piece of fabric, this one a soft brown with subtle variations in tone. As she measured it against herself, she realized Thraxar was watching her now, his black eyes following her movements.

“The color suits you,” he said unexpectedly.

Heat rose to her cheeks. “Thank you. I haven’t had anything new to wear in… a long time.”

“The mining colony provided inadequate resources.” It wasn’t a question.

“They provided what kept us alive and working. Nothing more.” She focused on cutting the fabric, not wanting to dwell on those memories. “This is luxury by comparison.”

His tail lashed in what she was beginning to recognize as a gesture of agitation. “Minimal survival requirements are insufficient for optimal functioning.”

She laughed softly, surprising herself. “That’s one way to put it.”

Rory had completed his constellation and was now watching them, his head tilted in the same manner as Thraxar’s. He hummed a different tune, this one rising and falling in a question.

“Yes, we’re talking about the asteroid,” she told him. “But we don’t have to go back there. Ever.”

He scooted over to Thraxar, settling beside him with unexpected familiarity. He reached out to trace the pattern on the Cire’s forearm, his fingers gently following the lines.

Thraxar remained perfectly still, allowing the contact. “The patterns are genetic markers,” he explained. “They identify our lineage.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said honestly.

“They are… merely biological features.” But his tail curled briefly around her ankle.

Rory continued tracing the patterns, humming contentedly, and Thraxar made no move to stop him, his massive body relaxed despite the child’s proximity.

The scene before her was so unexpected, so far removed from anything she could have imagined when they fled the asteroid, that Kara felt a sudden tightness in her throat. This huge alien had not only rescued them but was now sitting patiently while her son explored his skin markings. He had given them clothes, tools, food—all without demanding anything in return.

She turned back to her sewing to hide the moisture in her eyes. The fabric shimmered slightly under the cutting guide’s light, transforming under her hands into something new anduseful. Like their lives, perhaps—being remade from what had been discarded, finding new purpose in unexpected places.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, she allowed herself to feel something dangerously close to hope.