The military vehicle left the camp shortly after ten that night.
The road was illuminated by its headlights.
Even at that hour, people were everywhere.
Tents.
Parked cars.
Families.
Onlookers.
Religious believers.
People praying.
People shouting.
People who simply wanted to see Aurora.
Some had come from other towns.
Others had been there for days.
There were makeshift signs.
Religious images.
Photographs of Aurora.
Theories written on cardboard.
Some people tried to get closer to the barricades.
Others had attempted to enter the restricted area.
Voices alternated over the military radio.
— Attention, north sector.
— Unauthorized individual attempting to breach the perimeter.
— Containment team moving in.
— Maintain security protocol.
— No one enters the area without authorization.
The psychologist looked out the window.
A woman was kneeling at the roadside.
Farther ahead, an entire group was praying.
There were people with cameras.
There were people camping out, simply waiting.
There were people who seemed unsure of exactly what they were waiting for.
The vehicle continued on.
A few minutes later, they arrived at a checkpoint designated for authorized personnel.
The vehicle stopped.
She looked out the window.
Her husband was waiting.
Their daughter stood beside him.
The girl was wearing a thick coat.
For a few seconds, the psychologist simply remained inside the vehicle.
Her husband looked at her.
So did her daughter.
She opened the door.
Stepped out.
Didn't say anything.
Walked toward them.
And began to cry.
Her daughter ran into her arms.
Her husband embraced her a moment later.
The three of them stayed like that for several seconds.
Without speaking.
— It's been a difficult time, — her husband said.
She took a deep breath.
— It still is.
— I know.
He looked at her.
— And we still don't understand any of it.
She shook her head.
— Nothing.
He ran a hand over his face.
— Sometimes it feels like the end of the world.
She looked at the road.
— But it hasn't happened.
— No.
— The world goes on.
— It does.
They got into the car.
Their daughter climbed into the back seat.
Her husband handed his wife a thermos.
— I made soup.
She took the thermos.
She felt its warmth seep into her hands.
— Thank you.
— It's cold.
She opened the thermos.
Steam rose into the air.
For a few seconds, she remained silent.
Then she looked at her daughter in the back seat.
The girl was wrapped in a blanket.
The psychologist thought of Aurora.
Aurora was in that forest.
Without a blanket.
Without a coat.
Without a bed.
Without a home.
And yet, the tests said she was perfectly healthy.
She didn't feel cold.
She wasn't sick.
She didn't seem tired.
Nothing.
The radio was still on.
A journalist's voice was talking about Aurora.
— Experts continue to be unable to explain the nature of the young girl. Some theories suggest an extraterrestrial origin—
Her husband turned up the volume slightly.
Another voice came on.
— Religious groups are already claiming that Aurora is a demonic entity, while others believe she represents a form of divine manifestation—
Another report.
— Data obtained from military equipment indicate extraordinary levels of radiation. Some experts have gone so far as to compare the detected signature to that of a neutron star—
She pressed the button and turned off the radio.
Silence.
Her daughter looked at her through the rearview mirror.
— Mom?
— What is it?
— Are you okay?
She looked at her daughter.
Smiled.
— I am.
The car began to move.
Outside, people continued waiting for Aurora.
The psychologist looked out the window one last time.
She knew there had to be an explanation for all of it.
Perhaps there was.
Radiation.
Biology.
Energy.
Matter.
Gravity.
There were words for all those things.
The strange could be explained.
The problem was something else.
Aurora didn't simply seem strange.
She seemed to exist outside nature itself.
As if something had accidentally placed an impossibility inside the world.
An albino girl.
An ordinary teenager.
With the body of a human being.
With the appearance of a human being.
But with something inside her that made the universe seem as though it had made a mistake.
She closed her eyes.
In the back seat, her daughter was asleep.
Her husband was driving.
The soup was still warm in her hands.
And for the first time in weeks, she was going home.
Aurora remained in the forest.
Floating.
Alone.
And the entire world continued trying to figure out why.
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