The air was heavy that night, thick with the scent of wet earth and jasmine. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the courtyard still glistened under the yellow light that spilled from the kitchen window.

  Kai was eight. He sat on the edge of the low stone steps, holding a tiny toy drone in his hands. The propeller was bent, but he didn’t care. He was pretending it could still fly.

  Lian came up behind him, barefoot, carrying two mugs of warm milk. She was thirteen then, already tall for her age, already carrying herself like she didn’t want to show weakness.

  “Still trying to fix that thing?” she asked, sitting beside him.

  “It’s not broken,” Kai said. “It’s just... sleeping.”

  Lian smiled, setting the mug beside him. “You say that every time you break something.”

  He didn’t look up. “Dad said if I can fix it myself, I can have his old one.”

  “You’re missing a screw,” she said. “You’ll need to ask Mom.”

  Kai frowned. “She’s busy again.”

  From the open kitchen door, they could hear their mother’s voice—soft but steady, discussing something with their father. The words were too quiet to make out, but every now and then a note of tension slipped through, like the low hum before a storm.

  Lian tilted her head toward the sound. “They’re working on that project again.”

  “The tracking thing?”

  “Yeah. Something for the government, I think.”

  Kai looked at her. “Do you think it’s dangerous?”

  Lian thought for a moment, watching the kitchen window. The light caught her eyes, making them look older than they were. “I think Mom’s worried. She doesn’t show it, but I can tell.”

  Kai was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Do you think they’ll stop working soon? I want to go to the park tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” Lian said. “If you sleep early.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “You’re always not tired.”

  He grinned. “Then stay up with me.”

  Lian gave him a look, the kind that was half exasperation, half affection. “Fine. But only until the lights go out.”

  They stayed there together, listening to the distant hum of the city, the cicadas starting up again in the trees beyond the fence. The world felt small, safe. The kind of quiet that makes you think it will last forever.

  Inside, their father’s voice grew louder. “It’s too soon. We’re not ready.”

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  Their mother answered sharply. “We don’t have a choice. They’ll take it from us if we don’t finish.”

  The children exchanged a glance. Lian stood up first, walking to the doorway and peering in.

  Their father was pacing, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from running his hands through it. Their mother sat at the table, tapping on a tablet filled with data streams and code. The screen reflected in her glasses.

  “What if they misuse it?” he said. “This isn’t a weapon, Mei. It’s a surveillance system. It can track anyone. You know what that means.”

  “I know exactly what it means,” she replied. “That’s why I’m the one building it.”

  Lian hesitated in the doorway. “Mom?”

  Both parents turned. For a moment, the tension cracked. Their mother smiled faintly. “You’re still awake?”

  Kai scrambled up beside his sister. “We heard you fighting.”

  Their father sighed, rubbing his face. “We weren’t fighting, buddy. Just talking loudly.”

  “That’s what fighting is,” Kai said.

  Their mother laughed softly. “Come here.”

  They came closer. She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Lian’s face. “Sometimes adults have to make hard choices. But you don’t have to worry about that yet.”

  Lian studied her. “Are you scared?”

  Her mother paused, then said, “No. I just want to make sure you two grow up in a world that’s fair.”

  Kai didn’t really understand, but he nodded like he did. “Then I’ll help you.”

  His father knelt beside him. “You already help just by being you.”

  The kitchen light flickered briefly. Their father frowned. “The power’s been strange lately.”

  Their mother stood and turned off her tablet. “Enough work for tonight. Go brush your teeth.”

  Lian took Kai’s hand and led him down the hall. Their shared room smelled faintly of chalk and pine from the old floorboards. On the wall, a poster of a spaceship hung slightly crooked.

  Kai climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “Do you think Mom will finish her project soon?”

  Lian sat on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair. “Maybe. Then maybe things will go back to normal.”

  He yawned. “What’s normal?”

  “Dinner together. No more secret work.”

  Kai’s eyes were already closing. “I like it when she laughs. She doesn’t laugh as much now.”

  Lian turned off the lamp. “Then we’ll remind her how.”

  Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance. The rain had started again, tapping against the roof like soft drumming.

  Hours later, Lian woke up to the sound of footsteps. Quiet, deliberate. Not her parents. Not the wind.

  She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Kai, and padded to the door. The hallway was dim, lit only by the blinking red light of the home security panel.

  Her father’s study door was open. She could see his silhouette inside, bent over the desk, muttering to himself.

  Lian stepped closer. “Dad?”

  He turned quickly, startled. Then he relaxed. “You should be asleep.”

  “I heard someone outside.”

  He straightened, listening. For a moment, neither of them moved. The rain had stopped again, leaving an eerie quiet.

  Then he smiled gently. “Probably just the neighbors. Go on, I’ll lock up.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She went back to bed, though sleep didn’t come easily. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind brushing against the windows.

  In the next room, her parents whispered again, voices low and urgent.

  And outside, in the long grass beyond the gate, a black car idled with its lights off.

  But Lian didn’t see it. She had finally closed her eyes, one arm draped protectively over her little brother as if that alone could keep the world from changing.

  The night before it happened, everything still felt whole.