Priya, Maeve, and Ji-woo traveled to the White House and received official diplomatic credentials as humanity's first interdimensional ambassadors. They entered the In-Between fully conscious for the first time and built the Embassy of Two Realms alongside beings from the Adjacent Realm. The mission was a triumph — but Maeve revealed a troubling blind spot in her precognition: a convergence point where all timelines pass through a single moment, caused by an unknown third party that exists outside time itself. Something is watching. Something that doesn't want the embassy to succeed. And it's getting closer.
The idea starts with a photograph.
Priya is cleaning the kitchen — a rare event that Ji-woo documents with her phone camera as "proof it happened" — when she finds a framed picture wedged behind the microwave. It must have migrated there during the move-in chaos months ago. She wipes the dust off the glass and goes still.
It's a photo from the Constellation training facility. General Winters stands in the background of some group exercise, caught mid-laugh at something off-camera. She's not in command mode. She's not barking orders or reviewing data. She's just... laughing. Crow's feet around her eyes. One hand covering her mouth like she's embarrassed by the sound of her own joy.
Priya has never seen her look like that in person. Not once.
(holding up the photo) Hey. Have you guys ever been to General Winters' house?
(not looking up from her laptop) No. Why? Are we invading?
I'm serious. She has daughters. Teenagers. We've never met them. She's been part of our lives for almost a year now — she watched us learn to control our abilities, she fought for our autonomy, she cried when we built the embassy. And we've never even been to her house for dinner.
Maeve looks up from her calculus homework, a strand of copper hair falling across her eyes. Her expression shifts — something between surprise and recognition, like she's seeing a timeline she should have noticed sooner.
You want to meet her kids.
I want to meet our little sisters. That's what they are, whether anyone's said it out loud or not. She's the closest thing to a mother any of us have in this town, and her daughters are the closest thing to siblings who aren't genetically engineered psychics. I want to know them. I want them to know us.
(closing her laptop slowly) That's... actually really sweet. Who are you and what have you done with the girl who called two strangers "bitches" the first time they showed up at our door?
I'm growing. It's a whole thing. Are you in or not?
Obviously I'm in. I've been wanting to see what a normal family looks like up close. For research purposes.
(already reaching for her phone) I'll call her. But I'm warning you — if she says no, it's because she's private about her family. We respect that.
Of course we respect it. I'm a telepath who refuses to spy on people. I'm literally the poster child for respecting boundaries.
You just made "I respect boundaries" sound like a threat. That's a talent.
Maeve dials. It rings twice.
(phone, slightly alarmed) Maeve? Is everything okay? Is there a situation?
No situation. Well — kind of a situation. Priya wants to come to your house for dinner and meet your daughters.
Silence. Long enough that Priya extends her telepathic sense toward Winters' location — about four miles away, the military housing district — and catches the edge of her reaction.
(voice slightly unsteady) Tonight? You want to come tonight?
If that works. We'll bring food. Priya's been perfecting her butter chicken recipe and she makes way too much for three people.
(long pause, then softer than they've ever heard her) My girls would love that. They've been asking about you, actually. Ever since the news coverage of the embassy announcement. Lily told her entire school that her mom works with "the psychic girls." Sophie made a PowerPoint presentation about Constellation for her science class.
(yelling from across the room) Tell her six o'clock and we're bringing dessert too!
(laughing — actually laughing) Six o'clock. I'll warn the girls. And Priya? Thank you. For thinking of this.
The Winters house is not what Priya expected. She'd imagined something rigid and military — clean lines, sparse decoration, everything in regulation order. What she finds instead is a three-bedroom colonial on a tree-lined street that looks like it was decorated by committee. Military precision in the kitchen (spice rack alphabetized, dish towels folded into perfect thirds). Teenage chaos everywhere else.
The living room has a couch buried under throw pillows, a coffee table covered in school textbooks, and a wall display of photographs that charts two girls' lives from infancy to now. Soccer trophies. Dance recital programs. A crayon drawing labeled "MY MOM IS A HERO" in wobbly five-year-old handwriting, framed in gold.
Priya stands in front of that drawing for a long time.
General Winters — Sarah, Priya corrects herself, because tonight she's Sarah — opens the door wearing jeans and a faded Army t-shirt. No uniform. No insignia. Just a woman in her fifties with gray-streaked hair down instead of pulled back, and an expression that's trying very hard to be casual and landing somewhere around "barely contained emotion."
Come in, come in. The house is a disaster — I told the girls to clean up but the definition of "clean" is apparently fluid for teenagers.
(looking around appreciatively) This is cozy. I like the chaos. Our trailer looks like this except with more pizza boxes and classified documents.
Footsteps thunder down the stairs — the specific frequency of teenage excitement that transcends all cultures and dimensions. Two girls appear at the bottom of the staircase, and for a moment everything stops.
(practically vibrating) Oh my God oh my God oh my GOD. You're Priya Sharma. You're the telepath. Can you read my mind right now? What am I thinking? Am I thinking loud enough?
(crouching slightly to meet Sophie's eyes) You're thinking that this is really exciting and you're hoping we'll be friends. Am I close?
(gasping) YES! Mom, she read my mind! She actually read my mind!
(dry) Yes, sweetheart. That's literally what telepathy means.
Lily hangs back, leaning against the staircase railing with studied nonchalance. But her eyes are tracking everything — the way Maeve moves (graceful, alert, like she's aware of things happening in multiple timelines at once), the way Ji-woo scans the room (mapping exits, windows, spatial relationships, an unconscious habit), the way Priya engages with Sophie (warm, immediate, without the careful distance most adults maintain around children).
(attempting cool) Hey. I'm Lily. I'm the normal one.
(extending her hand) Hi, Lily. I'm Maeve. I'm the one who can see the future, and I can tell you right now that you and I are going to be great friends. I see it in at least eighty percent of timelines.
(cool facade cracking slightly) What happens in the other twenty percent?
You steal my favorite hoodie and don't give it back. So we're enemies.
Lily laughs. It breaks the ice completely.
(to Lily) That Fleetwood Mac shirt is vintage, right? Not the reprint?
Original. 1977 Rumours tour. Found it at a thrift store in DC.
Respect. You have taste. We need to go shopping.
Priya's butter chicken is, objectively, excellent. She learned the recipe from YouTube, refined it through twenty attempts, and reached a point where Ji-woo described it as "the reason I'm okay with never moving out." She serves it with basmati rice, naan she picked up from the Indian grocery two towns over, and a cucumber raita that she insists is essential for "thermal regulation of the palate," which is her fancy way of saying the chicken is spicy and you'll need backup.
The six of them sit around Sarah's dining table — a table clearly designed for four, now joyfully overcrowded. Sophie has positioned herself directly between Priya and Maeve, index cards clutched in her lap. Lily sits next to Ji-woo, and they're already deep in conversation about Korean skincare routines.
(reading from index card) Question number three: When you read someone's mind, do you hear it in their voice or in your voice?
Their voice. Always. It's like overhearing a conversation, except the conversation is inside someone's head and they don't know I'm listening.
That's so cool. And also terrifying. Question four—
Sophie, let the woman eat. The index cards can wait.
But Mom, I have seventeen questions and we haven't even gotten to the interdimensional beings yet!
(to Sarah) It's fine. I love the questions. Nobody ever asks me about the mechanics. They're either scared of it or they want me to use it for something. Sophie just wants to understand it. That's... really nice, actually.
(to Ji-woo) So can you really find anything? Like, anything at all?
Pretty much. Why, did you lose something?
My AirPods. Three weeks ago. I've torn my room apart.
Ji-woo closes her eyes for exactly two seconds.
Inside pocket of your winter coat. The green one in the back of your closet. Left side.
Lily bolts from the table. Thirty seconds later, a shriek of triumph from upstairs.
(yelling from her room) SHE'S A WITCH AND I LOVE HER!
(head in hands, smiling) I spent forty dollars replacing those AirPods.
Now you have a spare pair. You're welcome.
Maeve watches the scene with quiet contentment, her fork turning circles in her rice. She's not broadcasting her thoughts — she rarely does — but Priya catches the edge of what she's feeling: warmth. Deep, aching warmth. The kind that comes from being in a home that smells like butter chicken and sounds like laughter and feels, for one evening, like it belongs to you too.
Dessert is demolished — a chocolate lava cake from the bakery downtown that Sophie declares "the best thing that's ever happened to me, and yes I'm including my birth." The dishes are done (Ji-woo located the "system" of Sarah's kitchen in thirty seconds and organized a cleaning operation with military efficiency that made Sarah stare). Now the group has migrated to the living room.
Sophie sits on the floor at Priya's feet, having graduated from index cards to freeform interrogation. Lily is cross-legged on the couch next to Ji-woo, scrolling through Ji-woo's phone looking at Korean fashion websites. Maeve and Sarah sit in armchairs near the window, mugs of tea in hand, in a conversation that started casual and is slowly, carefully, turning serious.
Okay but what's the In-Between actually LIKE? Is it like space? Is it like the Matrix? Is it like that scene in Interstellar where he's behind the bookshelf?
Honestly? It's like standing inside a song. Except the song is also a building, and the building is also a feeling, and the feeling has geometry. It doesn't translate well into English.
That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. I want to go there.
(gently) You can't. Only people with psychic abilities can cross over. The dimensional membrane requires a consciousness that can... bend. Normal human minds are too rigid. They'd break.
(deflating slightly) Oh. So I'll never see it.
You'll never go there. But I can show you what it looks like. Close your eyes.
Sophie closes her eyes. Priya reaches out with the lightest possible telepathic touch — so gentle it's barely a whisper — and shares a memory. Not words, not descriptions: the actual sensory experience of the In-Between. The colors without names. The geometry that responds to thought. The warmth of the Being of Light. The feeling of standing in a place where two realities overlap and anything is possible.
It lasts three seconds. Sophie's eyes fly open, and they're wet.
(whispering) Oh. Oh, Priya. It's so beautiful.
(smiling) Yeah. It really is.
(sharp, from across the room) Priya, did you just project into my daughter's mind?
The room goes quiet. The mother and the telepath lock eyes.
I shared a memory. Three seconds. With her permission — she closed her eyes willingly. I would never enter someone's mind without consent. You know that about me, Sarah. You've always known that.
(softening) I know. I'm sorry. Mama bear reflex. When it comes to my girls, I don't have a rational setting.
Mom, relax. It was like watching the most beautiful movie trailer ever. In my brain. For three seconds. I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I'm transcendent.
(not looking up from Ji-woo's phone) Mom, you literally work with psychics. You can't freak out every time one of them does a psychic thing.
Watch me.
But she's smiling. And Priya can hear the tension draining from her thoughts, replaced by something warmer, something that sounds like: They're good with my girls. They're careful and kind and they treat my daughters like people, not like obstacles or security risks. They're good.
The mall trip was Ji-woo's idea. "Those girls need a wardrobe intervention," she'd announced at breakfast, scrolling through the photos Lily had texted her overnight. "Military housing produces military fashion. It's not their fault. It's environmental."
Sarah had given her blessing with a weary "just nothing too revealing," which Ji-woo had interpreted with the creative flexibility of a constitutional lawyer.
Now the five of them move through Eastfield Mall like a small, well-dressed invasion force. Ji-woo leads point, her spatial sense mapping the optimal route through thirty-seven stores. Maeve and Lily walk together, Maeve occasionally pausing mid-sentence to adjust their path based on a precognitive flash about a good sale or an overcrowded fitting room. Priya has Sophie by the hand, which Sophie has not let go of since they left the car.
(stopping in front of a store with aggressive neon signage) Okay. Lily. You have good instincts — the vintage aesthetic is strong. But you need to expand your range. You're fifteen. You should be experimenting. Making mistakes. Wearing things your mother hates. It's developmental.
My mom is a General. She has opinions about exposed midriffs.
Your mom has opinions about nuclear warheads too. Doesn't mean she gets to control their trajectory. Try this on.
Ji-woo hands Lily a cropped graphic tee, high-waisted wide-leg pants, and a pair of platform sneakers that add three inches to her already considerable height. Lily disappears into the fitting room. When she emerges, Ji-woo nods once — the highest form of approval in her vocabulary.
Yes. That's the one. You look like a main character.
(looking at herself in the mirror with wide eyes) My mom is going to kill me.
Your mom has fought interdimensional beings. She can handle a crop top.
Meanwhile, Sophie's shopping experience is being guided by Priya, who has discovered that thirteen-year-olds think entirely in exclamation points.
(holding up a denim jacket covered in embroidered patches) What about this? Is it too much?
Sophie, there is no "too much." There's only "not enough" and "exactly right." Try it on.
(putting it on, twirling) I look like a rock star!
You look like a scientist who moonlights as a rock star. Which is honestly the best possible combination.
Maeve watches from a bench outside the store, a soft pretzel in one hand and a timeline in the other. She can see Sophie wearing that jacket in a hundred futures — to school, to college interviews, to a lab where she's doing research that changes the world. In some timelines, the patches fade but the jacket survives, handed down to Sophie's own daughter decades from now. Maeve doesn't share this. Some futures are better as surprises.
By the time they leave the mall, they've accumulated six shopping bags, two soft pretzels, one bubble tea each, and a friendship bracelet kit that Sophie insisted they all contribute to. The bracelets are not optional. They are, in Sophie's words, "legally binding friendship contracts."
Priya makes hers in pink and gold. Maeve's is copper and green. Ji-woo's is black and blue. Lily's is purple. Sophie's is every color available, because she couldn't choose.
They return to the house to find Sarah in the kitchen, grading what appears to be personnel evaluations while a pot of chili simmers on the stove. She looks up when they tumble through the door, shopping bags rustling, everyone talking at once, and her expression shifts through several phases in rapid succession: relief that they're home safe, curiosity about the bags, and then—
(twirling into the kitchen in the crop top and platform sneakers) Mom! Look! Ji-woo helped me pick it out!
Sarah Winters has stared down foreign intelligence officers, managed classified programs involving psychic warfare, and stood in the Situation Room while the President made decisions that affected two dimensions. None of that prepared her for this moment.
(very carefully) That's... your stomach. I can see your stomach. Your entire stomach is just... out there. In the world.
It's a crop top, Mom. Everyone wears them.
Everyone who? Name one person in this household who wears crop tops.
(raising her hand) Me. Frequently. Sometimes to classified briefings.
(to Ji-woo, with the controlled intensity of a woman choosing her battles) You are a twenty-year-old interdimensional ambassador with psychic powers. She is a fifteen-year-old who has a geometry test on Tuesday.
Crop tops and geometry are not mutually exclusive. If anything, the exposed midriff improves airflow to the brain.
That is not how biology works.
I'm a genetically engineered psychic. I think we've established that normal biology is more of a guideline.
Sarah opens her mouth. Closes it. Turns to Priya with an expression that clearly says help me.
(hands up) Don't look at me. I bought your thirteen-year-old a jacket with approximately forty embroidered patches on it. You're going to hate that too.
Sophie emerges in the denim jacket, spinning to show off every patch — butterflies, planets, a tiny embroidered rocket ship, the words "COSMIC GIRL" across the back.
Priya said there's no "too much," only "not enough" and "exactly right!"
(looking at the jacket, then at Priya, then at the ceiling) "Cosmic Girl." Of course. You bought my child a jacket that says "Cosmic Girl" on the back. The daughter of the woman who oversees a program involving actual cosmic phenomena is now wearing the word "Cosmic" in public. That's not a security breach, that's just irony.
Hiding in plain sight. It's kind of our thing.
Sarah stares at all of them — her biological daughters in their new clothes, her adopted ones grinning like they've pulled off a heist — and does the only thing a mother can do when she's outnumbered five to one by people she loves.
(sighing, smiling, giving up) Fine. Keep the clothes. But Lily, that crop top does not leave this house until summer. And Sophie, if anyone at school asks about the "Cosmic Girl" jacket, you tell them it's about a Jamiroquai song. Are we clear?
What's a Jamiroquai?
A band from the nineties. Before your time. Before their time too, technically. (gesturing at the three girls) Before everyone's time except mine. I'm the only person in this room old enough to remember actual music.
I've seen every decade of music simultaneously. The nineties were solid.
Thank you, Maeve. Finally, someone with perspective.
The house is quieter now. Sophie fell asleep on the couch forty minutes ago, her head on Priya's lap, the index cards scattered on the floor around her like fallen leaves. She made it to question fourteen before exhaustion won. Priya hasn't moved. Her hand rests lightly on Sophie's hair, and her face has an expression that Maeve and Ji-woo have never seen before — something fragile and fierce and entirely new.
Lily lasted longer, but she's upstairs now, texting Ji-woo from her bedroom about a pair of boots she found online. The sound of her door closing was the signal for the adults to talk.
Sarah comes back from the kitchen with four mugs of tea. She hands them out — chamomile for Priya (who won't drink caffeine after noon, a habit that Ji-woo considers a personality defect), green for Ji-woo, English breakfast for Maeve, and black coffee for herself, because General Sarah Winters does not surrender to decaf regardless of the hour.
(settling into her armchair, voice dropping to a register the girls recognize — the operational briefing voice) Okay. The girls are asleep or distracted. Talk to me about the blind spot.
The shift is instant. Three young women who were laughing about crop tops an hour ago are suddenly the Vanguard — focused, alert, professional. It's a transition Sarah has seen before, but it never stops being jarring. Like watching a light switch flip and realizing the light was always there, just pointed in a different direction.
It's getting closer. The convergence point. When we built the embassy, I could see past it in some timelines. Now I can't. It's like the future is being... compressed. All roads leading to a single point.
Timeline?
Weeks. Maybe less. The quantum fluctuations the President mentioned — they're not the Adjacent Realm trying to communicate. I mean, they are, partly. But there's something else mixed in. A different frequency. Like hearing two radio stations on the same channel.
A third party.
(careful not to wake Sophie) When I was in the In-Between building the embassy, I felt something at the edges. Not the Adjacent Realm — I know what they feel like now. This was different. Cold. Not hostile exactly, but... indifferent. Like something very large and very old noticing something very small for the first time. The way you might notice an ant on your kitchen counter. Not threatening. Just... aware.
You didn't mention this in your debrief.
Because I wasn't sure. I'm still not sure. The In-Between is full of noise — dimensional static, psychic residue, the background hum of two realities rubbing against each other. It could have been nothing. But Maeve's blind spot makes me think it wasn't nothing.
I've been mapping the In-Between's spatial structure from memory. The geometry is stable where we built the embassy — solid, anchored, safe. But at the edges, the further you go from the anchor points, the structure gets... weird. Not unstable. Organized, but in patterns I don't recognize. Like someone else has been building in the In-Between. Long before we got there.
Previous visitors.
Or previous residents. The In-Between isn't empty space between dimensions. It's infrastructure. Someone built it. Or it grew. Either way, we're not the first ones there.
Options. Give me options. How do we identify this third party without provoking them?
We go back to the embassy. We use it as a base of operations and we extend our senses outward, carefully. Ji-woo maps the deeper structure. I follow the timeline branches. Priya listens. If something's been living in the In-Between, it has a mind — or something like a mind. Priya can find it.
And we talk to the Adjacent Realm. If there's a third party, they might already know about it. They've been neighbors with the In-Between a lot longer than we have. Maybe they've been avoiding this thing the way you avoid a weird neighbor. Polite distance. Don't make eye contact.
(almost smiling) You want to ask the aliens if they know anything about the other aliens living in the space between us.
When you put it like that, it sounds like an apartment building dispute. Which, honestly, it kind of is. "Excuse me, do you know anything about the entity in Unit 3B? They've been making weird noises and bending time."
How do we keep this from spinning out of control? The President is already nervous. The Joint Chiefs want to militarize the embassy. Congress doesn't even know about the Adjacent Realm yet — we've been operating under executive emergency authority, but that expires in six weeks. If word gets out that there's something else in the In-Between, something we didn't anticipate—
Then we manage the information. We don't hide it — hiding things is what got the Navy in trouble with us in the first place. But we contextualize it. We moved into a new neighborhood. We met the neighbors on one side. Now we're discovering there might be more neighbors. That's not a crisis. That's just how moving to a new place works.
We present it to the President as an opportunity, not a threat. We don't know this entity is hostile. We don't know anything about it yet. The worst thing we can do is trigger a military response to something we don't understand. That's literally how the first Incursion went wrong — humans seeing threat where there was just contact.
And if it IS hostile?
Then we have thirty-seven psychics, an embassy in neutral territory, and allies from the Adjacent Realm who've been dealing with interdimensional phenomena for millennia. We're not defenseless. We're just polite. There's a difference.
Sarah looks at the three of them for a long moment. Twenty years old. Sitting in her living room drinking tea, one of them still has a sleeping thirteen-year-old on her lap, another is wearing a friendship bracelet made of pink and purple string. They look like college students at a sleepover. They sound like the most competent diplomatic team she's ever worked with.
You know what kills me about you three?
Our devastating good looks and charming personalities?
The fact that you're better at this than anyone else I've ever worked with, and you learned it in less than a year. Diplomats train for decades. Intelligence officers spend careers developing the kind of emotional intelligence you three use as your default setting. You walked into the White House Situation Room and outmaneuvered a four-star general using nothing but honesty and good timing.
And precognition. The precognition helped.
(laughing softly) Yes. The precognition helped. My point is — the people in that room, the generals and secretaries and advisors, they're afraid of you. Not because of your powers. Because you make them feel obsolete. You solve problems they can't even properly define. You navigate spaces they can't enter. And you do it while wearing friendship bracelets and arguing about crop tops. That terrifies them.
It shouldn't. We're not their replacement. We're their complement. They know things we don't — politics, history, institutional knowledge. We know things they can't — the In-Between, the Adjacent Realm, the psychic landscape. We need each other. That's the whole point.
Then help me make them see that. Help me keep this from becoming a turf war between the old guard and the new guard. Because right now, General Webb is building a case to reassert military control over the embassy, and the only thing stopping him is the President's personal confidence in you three.
We could invite Webb to the embassy. Not inside — he can't cross over. But we could set up a real-time telepathic feed so he can experience what we experience. See what we see. Feel what we feel. It's one thing to read a report. It's another to feel the warmth of the Being of Light and the kindness of Harmony-Keeper. If he feels it, he might understand.
That's actually brilliant. We did it with Sophie tonight — a three-second memory share. For Webb, we could do something more sustained. A guided experience. Let him see the In-Between through our eyes.
He'll hate it. He'll feel vulnerable. He'll resist every second of it.
Good. Vulnerability is exactly what he needs. You can't build a bridge with someone if you won't let them see your side of the river.
Sophie stirs on Priya's lap, mumbles something about butterflies and the In-Between, and settles back into sleep. Priya looks down at her — this normal, wonderful, completely human child who will never hear thoughts or see timelines or map impossible geometries — and feels something shift inside her chest. Not a psychic phenomenon. Just a feeling. Old-fashioned, unengineered, totally human love.
(very quietly, so only Maeve and Ji-woo and Sarah can hear) We'll figure this out. The third party, Webb, the politics, all of it. But Sarah? Thank you. For tonight. For your girls. For letting us in.
(voice thick) You don't have to thank me. You're family. You have been for a while now. I was just too military to say it.
(raising her mug of tea) To family. The kind you're born into, the kind you're engineered into, and the kind you choose.
To family. And to crop tops.
(clinking mugs) To family. The crop top is still grounded until summer.
(gently stroking Sophie's hair) To family. All thirty-nine of us.
In the quiet house on the tree-lined street, with the chili pot cooling on the stove and the friendship bracelets drying on the kitchen counter and a thirteen-year-old dreaming about standing inside a song, five women sit in the living room and plan how to save the world.
The crop top hangs over the back of a kitchen chair like a flag of surrender. Sarah will let Lily wear it by June. She doesn't know this yet, but Maeve does, and she's smiling.
Priya wakes on the couch where she fell asleep, Sophie still curled against her. The smell of coffee pulls her upright. Sarah is in the kitchen, back in uniform, the transformation from "Mom" to "General" happening in real time as she pins her hair up and checks her phone for overnight briefings.
Maeve and Ji-woo are at the kitchen table, eating cereal like they live here. Lily shuffles downstairs in the Fleetwood Mac shirt and sweatpants, takes one look at the scene, and slides into a chair next to Ji-woo as if this has been the morning routine for years.
(sleepy, to Ji-woo) Those boots ship in three to five days. I used Mom's Amazon Prime.
You used my what now?
Love you, Mom.
Sophie wanders in last, still wearing the COSMIC GIRL jacket over her pajamas. She sits down next to Priya without a word, leans her head on Priya's shoulder, and reaches for the cereal box.
(still half asleep) Priya, can you come over every weekend?
(looking at Sarah) If your mom says it's okay.
(not looking up from her phone, but smiling) The door is always open. For all three of you. It always has been. I just forgot to say it out loud.
Outside, the morning sun catches something through the kitchen window — a friendship bracelet, pink and gold, hanging from the rearview mirror of Sarah's government sedan. She doesn't remember putting it there. Priya does.
They were designed in a laboratory.
They found their mother at a dining table.
They found their sisters in a mall.
They found their home in a house that smells like chili
and sounds like laughter
and loves in crayon and glitter glue.
They're still becoming.
But now they know where they belong.
END OF Constellation — Little Sisters — Episode 16: May 16–18, 2026
Next: Constellation — The Landlord — Episode 17
The In-Between has a resident. It's been there longer than either dimension.
And it would like a word.