The Director's Office
Jayden and his friend made their way back to the orphanage. The building, old but familiar, stood under a sky that looked grayer than usual. It had been years since Jayden last walked those halls with purpose.
They went straight to the director's office. To their surprise, he was there.
Director Ivan, a tall man with graying hair and tired eyes, was usually away in meetings or locked in paperwork, but today he sat behind his desk, flipping through old files. He looked up as the boys entered.
Jayden shifted on his feet. His voice came out hesitant, almost unsure of itself.
"I… I wanted to ask you something. About… my family. And… the day I was brought here."
The director's hand froze mid-page. His brows furrowed slightly, and he looked up, puzzled. There was a pause before he spoke.
"Now?" he said softly, more to himself than to Jayden. Why now, after all these years? He had always expected the boy to ask… but he never had.
Instead of answering, the director asked gently, "What do you remember about them?"
Jayden lowered his gaze. The silence between them grew heavy.
"I… not much," he finally muttered. "Just a little. Bits and pieces."
The director leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. His eyes scanned Jayden's face for a long moment before he sighed.
"I always thought you'd come asking," he said. "Maybe when you turned thirteen. Or fifteen. But you never did. You seemed… content to leave the past alone. And now, just a few months from leaving us… You want to know?"
Jayden didn't respond. He just stared at the edge of the table. His friend stood beside him awkwardly, offering the director a polite, uncomfortable smile.
The director adjusted his glasses and sat up straighter.
"Alright. Let me tell you what I can."
His tone shifted, becoming gentler and more distant—as if pulling memories from another lifetime.
"This orphanage… It was founded by a war hero. After the First World War. He built it for children who lost their parents in the line of duty. Soldiers. Medics. Pilots. For a long time, it served that purpose. But after he died, things started falling apart and funding dried up. Support faded. We struggled."
He paused, then continued.
"Then one day, a large organization came to us. They offered full sponsorship. Enough money to keep the place running and to feed the kids."
"But there was a catch. One condition."
He looked between them with a cautious expression.
"They said we had to accept any child they brought us. No paperwork. No questions. Just take them in and raise them as our own."
Jayden's friend frowned, shifting his weight. Jayden remained still, eyes fixed on the table's grain.
"We were desperate," the director admitted. "And honestly? We didn't see the harm. It was just a few kids every year. Quiet drop-offs. No names. No explanations. Just… children."
He lowered his voice.
"Jayden… you were one of them."
For the first time, Jayden looked up and met the director's eyes.
Silence. A heavy, almost sacred kind.
Then his friend stepped forward and spoke softly.
"Thank you… sir. We'll go now."
The director nodded slowly. Jayden said nothing.
Later That Night
In the quiet of their room, Jayden sat on the edge of his bed, unmoving. His friend leaned against the window, arms crossed, lost in thought.
The air was still. No words passed between them.
Then Jayden finally broke the silence.
"...The Organization."
Fractures in the Silence
...the word hung in the air like a storm cloud.
"The Organization…"
Jayden's voice was low, barely more than a whisper. But it was enough. His friend looked up, startled by the weight in those two words. Jayden's fingers gripped the edge of his bed, knuckles pale. His eyes were fixed on nothing, lost in a sea of thoughts he hadn't dared to sail before.
His friend sat up. "You think they're connected to the envelope?"
Jayden didn't answer right away. He reached under his pillow, pulling out the now-crumpled envelope. He stared at the emblem faintly etched on the inside of the flap—a symbol neither of them had recognized before. Now it felt more sinister. Purposeful.
"They dropped me off here… like a delivery," Jayden muttered. "Paid to forget me. Raised in a house that was never home."
His friend frowned. "Do you think that man—the one who gave you the letter—is from the organization too?"
Jayden shook his head slowly. "I don't know. But whoever he is, he's not just some stranger. He knew my parents. He knew I'd find the cipher. He knew I'd want answers."
There was a pause. The rain from earlier had stopped, leaving only the soft patter of leftover droplets falling from the roof.
"So… what now?" his friend asked.
Jayden looked up, a new fire in his eyes. The confusion and silence from earlier were gone, replaced by a quiet determination.
"Now… we find them—the organization. We find out why they brought me here.
They sat in silence, the enormity of their new goal settling in. But this was just the beginning—and Jayden knew it.
PRESENT DAY...
Days have passed since the global meeting. The world was watching, waiting, but its leaders were paralyzed by uncertainty. Behind closed doors, they scrambled for answers and held endless sessions with advisors, military strategists, scientists, and intelligence units. Yet, nothing concrete emerged—only cautious murmurs and recycled theories.
Then, the media caught wind of the silence.
Whispers turned to rumors—whispers about secret international deals, underground mobilizations, and power plays disguised as preparation. The public grew restless. Talk shows speculated. Headlines flared with "World Governments Divided on Alien Strategy" and "Who Is Really in Charge?"
But one name kept resurfacing—NASA.
In the public eye, NASA was always the symbol of space, the spearhead of humanity's cosmic curiosity. Now, it bore the weight of an entire planet's hope. The pressure was unbearable.
Inside NASA's highest-security labs, scientists worked around the clock. Supercomputers hummed day and night. Analysts studied the beam that cured cancer, quantum physicists debated the origin of the alien vessel, and xenobiologists scrambled to decode the biology of a species no one had seen.
Still, nothing made sense.
No origin point. No logical path through the cosmos. No existing physics could explain the miracle beam.
And deeper still—past the secure floors and badge-locked corridors—sat the veterans of an old decision. A decision that now haunted them.
They were the ones who had once commissioned and later dismantled the secret space initiative mentioned long ago in hushed tones. The project that might have bridged the gap between then and now. If they had just held on a little longer... if they'd fought a little harder...
Regret tasted bitter.
Now, only one thread remained.