The storm broke at dawn—not with fanfare, but with a gradual stillness, like the world itself had been holding its breath and finally let go. Dust still clung to the air, a haze of grit and static, but the worst of it had passed. Light filtered through it in dull amber shafts, stretching across rooftops like cautious fingers.

  Hal opened the storm shelter and was immediately greeted by Moozy's grumbling. The baker emerged with flour still dusting his beard despite hours underground, his face flushed with indignation and sleep deprivation.

  "You locked me in there, you absolute bastard," Moozy said, voice echoing against the shelter's metal walls like a judge's gavel.

  "You were safer," Hal replied, leaning against the doorway like he hadn't just withstood a sandbster storm on his own terms. His cybernetic eye glowed faintly in the dim light, scanning Moozy out of reflex. No injuries. Just bruised pride and a short fuse.

  "You didn't even come down! You trying to be a martyr, you stubborn ox?" Moozy jabbed a thick finger through the air, leaving little puffs of flour behind like irate punctuation.

  Before Hal could retort, both men turned as a soft whine cut through the dust-thick quiet. Biscuit, Moozy's squat, flour-dusted mutt, stood near the back door with ears perked, tail low and tense. He let out another anxious whine and pawed at the floor, gaze locked toward the tavern.

  "What's wrong with him?" Moozy asked, crouching down. His knees popped like old hinges as he stroked the dog's head.

  Hal shrugged. "Stray cat, probably." But his cybernetic fingers twitched—betraying a flicker of doubt.

  Dane stepped out from the civic shelter into the strange hush of a storm-washed morning. His boots crunched over snapped wiring and bits of tarp, the air still humming with a tension that hadn't quite left. The wind had calmed, but the storm had left its ghost behind—haunting doorframes, cttering signs, whispering through broken vents.

  He began his recheck circuit.

  Moozy was already outside, sweeping at the bakery's stoop and muttering curses at the dust. Biscuit lingered behind him, tail still drooping, eyes flicking toward the tavern every few seconds like the building might get up and walk.

  "You two alright?" Dane asked, pausing at the step.

  Moozy leaned heavily on his broom and let out a sigh. "We're fine. Aside from someone locking me underground like I'm bread dough on its final rise. Nothing a man my age enjoys."

  Hal appeared in the tavern doorway, wiping grease-stained hands on a threadbare towel, the quiet click of cybernetic fingers barely audible. Dane nodded toward the distant shield tower, its lights now glowing steadily instead of sputtering.

  "Appreciate you getting that fixed."

  Hal snorted—a dry, mechanical sound. "Wasn't me." His face didn't change, but the flicker in his augmented eye said more than he meant to.

  Moozy caught it too. Shot him a sharp look—gone as quickly as it appeared. Dane filed it away under that growing stack of things that weren't adding up tely.

  At the old motel, the terraformers were stirring. They moved with the practiced rhythm of men who'd done this a hundred times—packing gear, muttering groggy jokes, slinging bags over shoulders.

  "Think Moozy's baking yet?" one asked, rubbing the helmet strap imprint from his forehead.

  "I want a meat pie and two cups of that sludge he calls coffee," said another. "The kind that stands the spoon up straight."

  Commander Thane stood near the door, arms folded, watching them go like he expected one to steal a chair on the way out. He didn't speak until Dane approached.

  "All quiet?" Dane asked.

  "They slept. They'll leave. Worked out fine." Thane's voice was a dry scrape, ft and worn. No anger. No warmth. Just distance.

  Dane nodded once. He didn't expect more.

  Lena's stall stood immacute. Not a single bruised fruit in sight. Her tarps had held, and her goods were dry. Still, she stood there with arms crossed, shoulders drawn so tight they looked like they might snap.

  "Would've been worse if you all hadn't shut the shuttles early," she said, her clipboard clutched like a weapon. "Still say you should've routed my emergency supply order."

  "You didn't file one," Dane replied, already moving past.

  "I shouldn't have to!"

  Her voice pitched high enough to turn heads. Dane didn't stop. Didn't even gnce back. Just one more thing on the list.

  The clinic was calm, but there was tension in the air. The scent of antiseptic mixed with storm grit and weary silence. Elian moved quietly from patient to patient, sleeves rolled, focus sharp. A twisted ankle. Sand in eyes. A deep cut stitched with calm efficiency.

  On one cot, a mother cradled a bandaged arm while her son sobbed into a bnket. The Kade twins knelt beside him—usually chaos incarnate—but now one held a whittled toy out like a peace offering.

  "Thank you," the boy whispered, clutching it like treasure.

  Elian watched them from across the room, heart aching with something he didn't have words for. The twins were rough and loud, always in trouble—but there was goodness in them, too. A flicker of something better.

  "Kid'll remember that," he murmured, mostly to himself.

  Outside, the Nezien brothers had already set up their bottlecap game beside the clinic door, flicking caps with the same grizzled rhythm they always had. The storm hadn't touched them. Nothing ever did.

  Dane looped back toward the tavern. Something metallic caught his eye behind the building—torn shield fabric, half-buried in the dust. He crouched, fingertips brushing the shredded material.

  He gnced up.

  The tower loomed, steady hum vibrating in his chest. Stronger. Clearer. Repaired. He climbed the dder, each step ringing against metal, slow and deliberate.

  The panel was closed.

  Not patched. Not sealed with old wire or chewed tape. This was clean work—tight seams, no rust. Someone had fixed it properly. With care. With reverence.

  But Hal had said it wasn't him. And Hal didn't lie. Not about the town. Not about things that mattered.

  Dane stared at the panel, the hum of the tower a low note in the bones of the building.

  "Alright," he said quietly, fingers ghosting over the new seal. "Let's see who's pying ghost mechanic this week."

  The storm had passed, but it left behind a town still frayed at the edges. Some pces mended quickly—roofs patched, fences righted, broken garden trellises rewired with stubborn grace. Other things took longer. Like the lights above Moozy's bakery.

  They flickered again just after sunrise, buzzing with that tired stutter like old eyes refusing to open. Moozy grumbled into his radio, voice low and scratchy. "Tell Gavin my lights are acting possessed again." His thick fingers, dusted with flour, left faint prints on the worn pstic casing.

  Gavin, already mid-morning patrol and elbow-deep in checklists, logged it without a second thought. "Logged it. I'll swing by ter." The deputy's tone was clipped, his mind already moving to the next item on his ever-growing list of tasks.

  But by the time he passed the bakery hours ter, the lights were fine. Not just fine—perfect. Bright. Even. Not a flicker in sight. Gavin slowed his patrol bike, brow furrowing as he took in the seamless illumination.

  Curious, Gavin ducked inside, drawn more by instinct than the scent of fresh bread. The warm, yeasty aroma enveloped him, conjuring memories of simpler times before the war. "You must've found a fix," he said to Moozy, gesturing vaguely to the overhead mps as he helped himself to a cup of coffee from the battered pot behind the counter.

  Moozy blinked, his bushy eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I didn't touch them. Still flickering when I opened up." He shook his head, beard swaying with the motion, a few stray crumbs dislodging from the wiry strands.

  Gavin paused mid-sip, the hot liquid scalding his tongue. "Huh." He set the mug down, studying the pristine lights with a furrowed brow.

  They shared a look, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Dane might've chalked it up to some helpful passerby. But Gavin knew the work of a casual helper. This wasn't that. The fix wasn't spped together or rigged with leftover parts.

  The fixes were clean, precise. And not just fixed, but fully repaired. By someone who did it quietly and silently.

  By someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Gavin's cybernetic hand clenched, the servos whirring faintly as he contempted the implications of this mysterious repair.

  Two days ter, Dane spotted a leaky line near the north market stalls during his patrol. Water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm onto the warm earth—a small leak, but a matter of time before it blew. He grimaced, radioing in. "The North market line is leaking. Small one. Let's get eyes on it before Lena gets there."

  "Copy that," Gavin said, already rerouting.

  But when he arrived, the leak was gone. Not patched. Fixed. A clean new seal cmped over the connection, so pristine it gleamed. The dirt below still held the memory of water, but nothing more. Gavin's brow furrowed as he studied the repair, running his cybernetic fingers over the smooth metal. Whoever did this knew their craft.

  Gavin clicked his comm. "It's handled. But... not by me."

  Dane's voice crackled, clipped. "Wasn't me either."

  A heavy silence stretched between them, loaded with unspoken implications. Gavin could almost hear the gears turning in Dane's head.

  "I'll go ruin my afternoon," Gavin muttered, breaking the tension.

  He headed straight for Lena's stall, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation. She was frowning over jars of preserves when he found her, lips pursed in that familiar expression of disapproval.

  "You see that water line?" he asked casually, nodding toward the repaired section.

  "What water line?" she snapped, eyes narrowing.

  "There was a leak. Someone fixed it."

  Her frown deepened into a scowl, the wrinkles around her mouth etching deeper. "And no one told me?"

  Gavin suppressed a sigh. "It's fine now," he offered, keeping his tone pcating.

  "That's not the point!" Lena's voice rose, shrill with indignation. "What if it worsened overnight? I need to know these things. Communication—that's how communities survive."

  "Yes, ma'am." Gavin nodded, resigned. He knew better than to argue when she got like this.

  He retreated quickly, leaving Lena to fume over the perceived slight. Another mystery, another quiet repair by unseen hands. Somewhere out there, someone was fixing everything, leaving no trace but pristine results. The question was—who? And why?

  Three nights in, just after midnight, Elian's voice crackled through the radio. "Med cooler's acting up," he said, the weariness seeping into his tone. "I've already emptied it, and I can go without for a few days. But if someone can take a look, I'd appreciate it."

  "Got it logged," Gavin replied, scribbling a note on his ever-present pad. "I'll take a look after my route."

  "Thanks, Gavin. Get some rest. Night."

  Across the street, the sheriff's office door creaked open, and Dane stepped out, catching the tail end of the call. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and made his way over to the clinic. The lights hummed softly as he met Elian on the porch, their shadows intertwining in the glow of the storm-worn streetmps. They shared a quiet kiss, a moment of tenderness amidst the chaos.

  From the steps, the Kade twins made exaggerated gagging noises, their ughter echoing through the still night air.

  Elian chuckled, warm and unbothered by their antics. "You two should be in bed."

  Dane pointed a finger at the boys, his expression stern, but his eyes betraying a hint of amusement. "Go see Moozy. Grab food. Then home."

  "Yes, sir!" they chirped in unison, scampering off into the night, their footsteps fading into the distance.

  The door to the apartment clicked shut behind the couple, enveloping them in a cocoon of privacy. All was still, save for the gentle hum of the town's machinery.

  An hour ter, the twins returned, arms full of pastries from Moozy's bakery, leaving a trail of crumbs in their wake. As they approached the clinic, a flicker of movement near the back caught their attention. A blur of shadow, gone as quickly as it appeared.

  They exchanged a gnce, curiosity piqued, and crept around to investigate, hearts pounding in their chests. But when they reached the alley, it was empty. Just shadows and the whisper of the wind, carrying secrets they couldn't decipher.

  At dawn, Gavin kept his promise, the jingle of keys breaking the morning silence as he unlocked the clinic door and stepped into the quiet, cool air. The med cooler—supposed to be down—hummed perfectly, its steady thrum a reassuring presence.

  No warmth emanated from its depths.

  No noise of a struggle or malfunction.

  No signs of distress.

  Just the low, solid thrum of a perfectly functional machine, as if it had never faltered. The cooler that had been giving them headaches for weeks now purred contentedly, like a well-fed cat with no memory of ever being hungry.

  Elian entered moments ter, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair tousled in dark curls that fell across his forehead. "Cooler still giving trouble?" he asked, stifling a yawn that revealed just how early it was, even for the town's dedicated doctor.

  Gavin stood, frowning, his brow furrowed in confusion. His cybernetic hand flexed unconsciously at his side. "Nope. Works like new."

  They stared at it, the hum filling the silence between them, a puzzle waiting to be solved. The machine's steady rhythm seemed almost smug in its newfound reliability.

  Elian raised a brow, his gaze meeting Gavin's. "Kade twins?" he suggested, naming the usual suspects for any unexpected changes around town.

  Gavin shook his head slowly. "They'd have bragged," he muttered, his voice ced with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion. "Those two couldn't fix something without telling half the moon about it by breakfast."

  Elian sighed, pouring himself a cup of tea, the fragrant steam swirling in the air like ghostly tendrils. "Well... I'll take working over broken." A wry smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. He wrapped his slender fingers around the warm mug, drawing comfort from its heat.

  Gavin left the clinic thoughtful, his mind churning with unanswered questions. The morning sun cast long shadows across the dusty street as he walked, his footsteps heavy with contemption. Someone was out there, still fixing, still watching. A silent guardian, leaving no trace but pristine results in their wake. The question burned in his mind: who? And why? Whoever they were, they moved like shadows and fixed like ghosts—present only in the evidence they left behind.

  By the fifth day, the pattern was undeniable. A sensor near the old school—fried completely during the storm—was suddenly... perfect. Gavin ran diagnostics, his brow furrowed in concentration. The data was smooth. Clean. Calibrated. He double-checked, triple-checked, unable to believe his eyes. It was better than it had ever been, as if brand new.

  Dane cpped him on the shoulder as he passed, his heavy footsteps echoing in the corridor. "Nice work, Gav. Gd we're catching up." Gavin hesitated, his mouth opening slightly, then closing again without a word. He didn't correct Dane, didn't reveal the truth that gnawed at him.

  And by the seventh day, the evidence was everywhere, inescapable. The systems that should've still been glitching, malfunctioning from the storm's aftermath? They weren't. They were running better than before the storm, humming with efficiency. Not just repaired. Improved. Optimized to perfection.

  Mia moved like a ghost, a whisper in the circuitry, a presence only revealed in the gleam of a fresh seal, in the silence of a problem resolved. No announcements, no fanfare. No credit. She never left a name, a signature, a trace. But to the town that thought it had left her behind, she was saving them all over again. Quietly. Deliberately. And with every wire she rewired, every light she corrected, every leak she sealed—she stitched herself back into the bones of the pce she once called home, her touch gentle yet unyielding.