They spoke two languages now: one of words, one of silence—and a third, born in fire and code.
Kirion's daughter called it "The Ember Protocol." It wasn't just encryption. It was intuition. Messages woven in metaphor, keywords buried in children's rhymes, coordinates hidden in shared memories.
"Remember the story about the lemon tree?"
That meant: Meet at safehouse E. Travel light. Danger is high.
"Dad, do you still have that book with the hollow spine?"
Translation: Wipe all comms. They're watching.
It began as a precaution. But as government surveillance evolved—smarter, faster, predictive—it became their survival.
They practiced it at dinner. Over walks. In code drills Kirion disguised as memory games.
"First girl you kissed?" she'd tease.
"Didn't last as long as my first escape route," he'd answer.
They'd laugh, but both knew what it really meant: Tunnel B compromised. Fall back to alternate.
Even within their network, only three people knew the full cipher—Kirion, his daughter, and a courier known only as "Snowcap." Trust was no longer a gift. It was a locked vault, opened by actions, never promises.
Still, the code did more than protect them. It bonded them.
In a world trying to tear families apart, this secret language held them together—reminding them that even in war, there was room for care. For wit. For memory.
One night, after a long mission rerouting surveillance drones, Kirion left a message on her rig:
"The stars don't blink unless you're watching."
She found it. Decoded the meaning: Rest. You're safe. I'm here.
She didn't reply.
She just smiled—and slept for the first time in two days.