Time Skip: Age 6
Kaley was six when she first sensed the difference between being watched and being studied.
It was subtle at first—a flicker in the corner of her vision, a hush that didn't match the silence. Her mother dismissed it as heightened sensitivity, but Kaley had learned to trust her instincts.
The glyphs started changing.
They weren't reacting to her emotions alone anymore. They were responding to intent. To pressure. To things that pressed in from outside.
"Someone's trying to understand you," her mother whispered one night, after Kaley drew the glyph for Observe four times in a row without meaning to.
Kaley didn't answer. But later, in her room, she locked the door, sat cross-legged on the floor, and whispered back to the dark:
"I know."
Gremlin hissed at nothing in the corner.
Her room began to change, almost unconsciously.
Blankets layered into corners. Bookshelves rearranged into hiding places. Glyphs etched into the windowsill, under the bed, behind the dresser. Little anchors to keep the world from bleeding in.
Kaley no longer hummed while she worked.
She listened.
Sometimes, at night, she could hear her own breath shift with the glyphs. Like her body was syncing to a pulse that didn't belong to this world.
One night, she woke with a glyph etched across her palm—not drawn, not burned, but formed of living light. It faded before her mother entered the room, but not before she read the word:
Trace.
She didn't sleep the rest of the night.
Meanwhile, her bond with Momo grew.
They weren't in the same school yet, but weekend projects and family-approved supervised visits had become regular. Momo had started learning Kaley's glyph system not as an academic curiosity, but as something closer to a shared language.
Kaley noticed the way Momo listened—not just to what she said, but how she said it. Not just to the Void energy flaring from her palms, but the tremble she tried to hide in her shoulders.
They didn't call it comfort.
They didn't have to.
One rainy weekend, they built a music box together. Momo fabricated the gears and casing. Kaley etched the tuning glyphs. When the lid opened, it didn't play a melody. It whispered three symbols in harmonic resonance.
Still. Safe. Seen.
When it was done, Kaley pressed her forehead against Momo's shoulder and just breathed.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.
Kaley's mother grew quieter as the days passed.
She didn't talk about the Commission anymore. But Kaley caught her watching the hallway monitor for longer than necessary. Sometimes, she muttered to herself in languages Kaley didn't recognize.
When Kaley asked, "What are you afraid of?" her mother smiled.
"I'm not afraid," she said. "I'm preparing."
Kaley didn't ask what for.
She was already starting to understand.
Time Skip: Age 6 years, 3 months
Momo invited her to a garden.
Not a park. Not a playground. A real garden—tended, shaped, intentional. Rows of flowers wrapped in soft color. Benches tucked in shade. Water running through small carved channels.
"I come here when I feel too much," Momo said, voice low. "It's where I think best."
Kaley didn't reply with words. She stepped forward, let her fingers trail through the lavender, and smiled.
They sat beneath a wide tree. The branches curled above like a protective canopy. Gremlin lay curled at Kaley's feet, tail flicking with the breeze.
Kaley pulled out a small strip of paper. A glyph. Listen.
She passed it to Momo.
Momo blinked. "What should I listen to?"
"You'll know."
They closed their eyes.
The wind spoke.
It carried a memory Kaley hadn't lived and a feeling Momo hadn't spoken aloud.
When they opened their eyes, both were blinking too quickly.
"I think it worked," Momo said softly.
Kaley nodded. "I think you're the first person to ever really use one."
The government monitors returned.
Not directly. Not openly. But Kaley could feel it. The way her mother stiffened when certain letters arrived. The way the TV buzzed louder during the news. The way her own body felt heavier when she walked into public buildings.
She began drawing glyphs that weren't listed in her notes.
Glyphs that formed on instinct.
Shield. Bury. Burn. Mute. Split.
One afternoon, while Gremlin slept beside a pile of abandoned sketchpads, Kaley traced a circle of these glyphs and stepped into it.
The world slowed.
Time itself didn't freeze—but something did. The air folded. Light bent around her fingertips. She was somewhere between.
And something… was with her.
A silhouette stood at the edge of the circle. Tall. Pale. Empty eyes.
It didn't move. It didn't speak.
But Kaley could feel it.
Watching.
She blinked—and it was gone.
When she stepped out of the circle, her glyphs had scorched into the carpet.
She hid them before her mother saw.
But that night, she dreamed of it again.
The figure. The circle.
And a whisper that wasn't hers:
"We are remembering you."
Time Skip: Age 6 years, 6 months
Momo hugged her goodbye a little too tightly one visit.
Neither acknowledged it.
But Kaley sat on the train home that day clutching her sketchbook so hard it bent.
On the next page, she drew a new glyph.
Not one she'd ever made before.
Not a word.
A feeling.
Keep.
She folded the paper and placed it into her memory box. One of only five items.
A shell—found on a riverbank walk with her mother. A whisper of peace.
A light stone etched with Void—her first real anchor.
A photograph—her mother's laughter caught mind frame.
A red ribbon—given unknowingly by Momo, kept like a promise.
And now, a glyph. One not for protection, or analysis. One meant to hold.
She didn't know what the future would bring.
But she knew some things had to be kept.
Some things had to be held.
And Momo Yaoyorozu was becoming one of them.