Chapter 2: The Police, the Pebbles, and the Protocol

Chapter 2: The Police, the Pebbles, and the Protocol

Elara’s apartment, once a sanctuary of adult minimalism, was now utterly dominated by the presence of Milo and his impossibly small, yet surprisingly heavy, red suitcase. The first hour was a whirlwind of frantic, whispered phone calls and futile searches.

She led Milo, who was remarkably calm, to the kitchen island. "Okay, sweetie, you wait here and tell me about the sparkly tree, alright? I need to make some very important calls."

Milo immediately slid off the stool and, with a serious frown, retrieved his suitcase. He opened it, revealing not clothes, but a meticulously organized collection of oddities: a smooth, grey orb that pulsed with a faint inner light, a small, worn metallic compass that didn't point North, and a dozen or so polished black stones.

"The sparkly tree," Milo stated, lining up his black stones with the precision of a jeweler, "is the central node. It's difficult to see without the proper lens." He tapped the corner of his eye. "The problem is the temporal cascade. It makes the return trajectory unstable."

Elara stopped dialing 911. "The... temporal what, honey?"

Milo simply looked up at her with those immense, ancient-looking blue eyes. "The map isn't working, Auntie," he repeated, as if speaking to a dull child. "It means my signal is lost. I need to find the correct frequency."

She shook her head gently. This had to be an imaginative game, a coping mechanism. She quickly finished her call to the police, giving them a detailed description of the child and his strange attire, carefully omitting the mention of temporal cascades and glowing orbs. They assured her they would send an officer immediately and broadcast the description.

The arrival of Officer Ramirez only solidified the strangeness of the situation. The officer, a kind-faced woman with a clipboard, spent twenty minutes trying to coax a normal address out of Milo.

"Can you tell me the street name, Milo?" she asked patiently.

Milo pointed vaguely up. "The Milky Way. Near the Sagittarius Arm."

"And your parents' names?"

"Mother is Elara. Father is Silas." He nodded toward Elara. "We're waiting for Father."

Elara stammered, "I—I just met him! My name is Elara, but I'm not his mother."

Officer Ramirez looked from the perfectly innocent, angelic Milo to the flustered Elara. It was clear the child believed he was telling the absolute truth. After confirming no missing persons reports matched his description anywhere in the immediate vicinity, and seeing Elara's genuine distress, the officer reluctantly filled out a temporary custody form. They took photos and fingerprint scans, promising Elara she was the first contact if any leads emerged, but urging her to contact the Department of Child Services within 48 hours if his parents didn't appear.

As soon as the officer left, Elara sank onto the couch, running a hand through her hair. She was now the temporary legal guardian of a beautiful, possibly delusional, tiny traveler.

Milo, meanwhile, had begun his protocol.

He carefully placed his red suitcase near a large, south-facing window. Then, he lined up the black stones he called his "navigation pebbles" on the windowsill. He stared out, his face intense and focused.

"What are you doing now, Milo?" Elara asked, needing some grounding in reality.

"I'm realigning the trajectory," he explained, without taking his eyes from the sky. "It requires moonlight, but sunlight will do in a pinch. If the signal is too weak, I'll have to use the auxiliary power source." He patted his backpack.

Over the next few days, Elara's life transformed. She learned Milo was an impossibly tidy guest. He insisted on folding his own clothes (which seemed to magically appear in his backpack) and, despite his poor toast-making skills, he was fiercely independent. He never cried, never complained, and was always, always polite. He called her "Elara-Auntie," a title that felt unexpectedly warm.

But the oddities persisted. He never watched cartoons; he preferred documentaries on astrophysics. He never spoke about toys; he spoke about Temporal Mechanics. And every night, before falling asleep with his suitcase tucked next to him, he would stand at the window, staring up at the moon with a quiet, unnerving intensity.

Elara tried to find him on her own. She posted blurry photos on neighborhood forums, describing him vaguely. She scoured the news for any hint of a lost couple searching for their angelic son. Nothing. It was as if Milo had materialized from thin air, specifically onto her doorstep.

She found herself falling in love with him. He was sunshine in her minimalist life, filling the sharp edges with warmth and laughter. She started buying colorful blankets and actual groceries. She found herself smiling, a lot.

One evening, as Elara watched him carefully polish his small, mysterious compass, she asked him, "Milo, why my house? Why did you come to me?"

He looked up, those impossibly deep blue eyes holding hers. He gave her a smile that was not wobbly this time, but assured.

"The calculations are precise, Elara-Auntie," he whispered. "This is the waypoint. I had to check in first. Daddy is on his way."

The statement sent a shiver down her spine—a mixture of fear, wonder, and a strange, thrilling sense of Fantasy. It was the first time she truly believed him. And it meant her predictable life was about to get a whole lot stranger.

.......to be continued............

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