Miguel gasped and dropped the book.

The garage was still.

No flicker.

No whisper.

Just silence.

But it wasn’t peaceful.

It was inside him now.

He sat there, frozen, staring at the notebook. The diamond sketch had gone dim. The blood had dried. The Pulse had moved.

And it took everything with it.

That night, Miguel lay in bed, trying to sleep.

But his body felt wrong.

Not sick.

Not hurt.

Just full.

Like something was pressing against his ribs from the inside. Not physically. Emotionally.

He turned onto his side.

Then his back.

Then curled up tight.

His thoughts didn’t race.

His feelings did.

Sadness hit first. Quiet tears rolled down his cheeks, and he didn’t know why.

Then anger. His jaw clenched. His fists balled up under the blanket. He wanted to scream, but didn’t know at what.

Then laughter. Sudden, sharp, and real. He giggled at nothing. At the way his blanket looked like a cape. At the memory of Mo trying to rap and choking on a granola bar.

Then joy. Warm. Strong. Like sunlight in his chest.

Then silence.

Not peace.

Just blank.

Miguel didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He lay in bed, eyes open, heart quiet. The Pulse wasn’t speaking. It wasn’t humming. It wasn’t flickering.

It was just... there.

Inside him.

And it had played him like a piano: grief, rage, laughter, joy, then silence.

Now he felt hollow and full at the same time.

The alarm buzzed.

7:06 AM.

Miguel blinked at the sunlight bleeding through the blinds. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

He got up slowly, expecting the usual silence downstairs.

Instead, he smelled toast.

And eggs.

And coffee.

He froze.

Then rushed down the hall.

Maria Vale was in the kitchen.

Hair pulled back. Hoodie sleeves rolled up. Humming softly.

She turned and smiled. "I made breakfast."

Miguel’s breath caught. "You’re... up?"

Maria nodded. "I’m sorry, mijo. I’ve been gone too long."

He walked forward and hugged her tight, like he was afraid she’d vanish again.

"That’s my mom," he whispered. "Finally back."

"I’ll never disappear like that again," she said softly. "We’ll hold each other. We’ll heal together. Your dad would want that."

Miguel nodded, tears in his eyes. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too," she said. "You’ve suffered so much. You’ve been so strong. Let me help now."

Ashley ran in, arms wide. "I want a hug too!"

Miguel scooped her up. "Hey, breakfast smells amazing."

Ashley grinned. "Mom made the eggs fluffy!"

Maria smiled. "You’re such a responsible man, Miguel. Always taking care of Ashley. Of me. Of everything. Let me take care of you now."

Miguel blinked hard. "Thanks, Mom."

They sat and ate together. Toast, eggs, and orange juice. Miguel wiped his mouth and stood.

"Breakfast was amazing," he said. "But we’re late."

He grabbed Ashley’s backpack and walked her to school. She skipped beside him, humming a song he didn’t recognize.

Miguel smiled. The morning felt... normal.

At Drevan High, Miguel walked through the gates, hoodie down for once.

He spotted Mo talking to Naomi near the lockers. They were standing close. Talking. Naomi’s eyes flicked toward Miguel for a second.

Mo said something that made her laugh.

Then she asked, "Is he okay?"

Mo nodded. "My dumbass friend is a bit shy. But he’s a sweetheart. He’s going through it right now. I know he likes you. He just has too much on him."

Miguel stepped closer. "Bruh. What is he saying to her?"

Mo turned. "Habibi! Miggy! Bro!"

Naomi raised an eyebrow. "So you do talk."

Miguel rubbed the back of his neck. "Sometimes. When my best friend isn’t exposing me."

Mo grinned. "I only speak facts."

Miguel felt it again.

A wave.

Not sound.

Not light.

Just feeling.

Joy. Strength. Connection.

It wrapped around him like a hug from the inside.

He blinked. "Whoa."

Mo tilted his head. "You good?"

Miguel nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just... happy."

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just happiness.

It was the Pulse.

And it was waking up.

In art class, Miguel sat at his desk, staring at a blank page.

His fingers twitched.

He picked up a pencil.

And without thinking, he drew the diamond.

Four angles.

Then a fifth.

No label.

Just a symbol:

He stared at it.

The pencil snapped in his hand.

Miguel looked down.

His fingers were glowing.

Just faintly.

Just for a second.

Then it was gone.

He shoved his hand under the desk, heart racing.

And he didn’t understand it.