With all the new people under one roof, the shelter was never quiet anymore. Kids' laughter echoed off the walls, and their questions seemed endless—Why is the sky that color? What do these bugs eat? Can we build a swing in the garden? The grown-ups did their best to keep up. Mornings started with messy math lessons, someone scribbling numbers on a piece of scrap plastic while the kids argued over the answers. Lunchtime meant storytelling—memories of old Earth, tales of cities and oceans, and sometimes stories they made up just to make the children laugh. Afternoons were spent exploring outside, poking at strange plants and watching new animals scurry through the grass, everyone learning as they went.
Alex was surprised to realize how much he enjoyed teaching. He'd never thought of himself as someone who belonged at the center of things, but surrounded by curious faces and willing hands, he found himself coming alive. Sometimes, he'd pause in the middle of explaining something—how to dig a garden bed, or why the river bent the way it did—and marvel at how far he'd come from those lonely days in the warehouse.
He wasn't the only one who shone. Rhea spent hours under the night sky, mapping out new constellations and making up names for the brightest stars, her joy infectious. Mara led language games, turning lessons into laughter, slipping in words from a dozen old dialects. Even Lin, who pretended she didn't care, became a favorite with her gruff, hands-on lessons about fixing engines and building shelters.
The system was there, too—offering up new lessons and interactive games, sometimes filling the lounge with holograms of distant galaxies or lush, forgotten forests. The kids would gasp and reach out to touch the shimmering images, and even the adults found themselves caught up in the wonder of it all. In those moments, with everyone crowded together, eyes wide and hearts open, Alex felt something he'd almost forgotten—pure, unguarded hope for the future