The community center smelled like old books, microwave popcorn, and the faint tang of wet dog—because Mrs. Ruiz always brought her terrier, Pepe, to "supervise."
To anyone passing by, it was just another after-school hangout in Silver Creek: kids sprawled on beanbags, playing board games, arguing over who got the last juice box.
But if you looked closer—if you listened—you'd hear the hum beneath the chatter.
Not a sound. A feeling.
Like static before a storm.
Luna sat cross-legged on a faded rug, sketching in a notebook. Her locket lay open beside her, cracked but still warm. She wasn't drawing buildings or people. She was mapping pulses—tiny ripples only she could see, radiating from the other kids in the room.
There were eleven of them.
All local. All "weird," as the town called them.
Javi, twelve, who made streetlights flicker when he got nervous.
Mina, nine, whose tears left frost on her cheeks—even in July.
