“I tried to help.”
“Help how?”
“The boy who died… I felt him.”
My heart drops.
“You tried to stabilize him?”
He nods, tears in his eyes.
“I thought if I pushed my field to him, he wouldn’t fall.”
The baby convulses again.
The lattice spiked.
Not external convergence.
Empathic projection.
He tried to reach across territories.
Seventeen-year-old divine carrier dies.
My son tried to anchor him from miles away.
The strain backfired through the lattice.
“He can’t do that yet,” Morgan says sharply.
“He’s not trained for long-range resonance.”
“I just didn’t want him to die,” Asher whispers.
My heart breaks.
I kneel and hold him.
“You’re not responsible for that.”
“I felt him fall.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I could hold him.”
“You’re still learning.”
He looks at me through tears
