The sun rose soft and golden over Harper’s Ferry, spilling warmth across its rooftops and glassy solar panels. Gardens shimmered with dew, the faint hum of generators carried on the wind, and the air smelled of fresh bread and hot iron. Harper’s Ferry was proof, they said, that the world could start again.

Ava Dawson jogged toward school with a satchel of notes and dreams. The cobblestone lanes were alive with chatter—merchants arranging stalls, children racing through puddles, and farmers bringing in baskets of bright green beans from the hydro plots. By noon, she was laughing with her friends at Fizz, the settlement’s makeshift soda fountain. They shared a round of watered-down Nuka-Cola, teasing and talking about that night’s fall dance.

As the day faded into amber, Ava hurried home. Her family’s quarters sat above the apothecary, where her mother, Mara, mixed herbs in glass vials. The shop smelled of lavender, antiseptic, and smoke.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mara said without looking up. “How was school?”

“Same as always. June’s making me go to the dance.”

“Good,” Mara said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ll have fun.”

Upstairs, Ava slipped into her dress, brushed her hair, and caught her reflection in the cracked mirror. The town lights flickered on outside, and the radio hummed faintly from below. She came downstairs, ready to leave.

“See you later, Ava gator,” she said playfully.

But her mother didn’t smile this time. “Goodbye, Ava.”

It was strange—Mara never said goodbye. But Ava brushed it off and ran out into the night.

The dance was full of light and laughter, scratchy records and sweet cider. For a few hours, the world felt safe. But when Ava came home, the apothecary was dark. Inside, every bottle, every shelf, every chair was perfectly in place. Too perfect.

“Mama?”

No answer.

Upstairs, her mother’s bed was made, the room spotless. On the dresser sat a single Vault Boy bobblehead, grinning with its eternal thumbs-up. Her mother never went anywhere without it.

Ava’s chest tightened. She ran to the sheriff’s office.

“Sheriff Donlan, it’s my mom—she’s gone.”

The old man leaned back in his chair. “People come and go, kid. Maybe she went lookin’ for better pastures.”

“Without her coat? Without her bobblehead?”

“Harper’s Ferry’s full of ghosts,” he muttered. “Don’t go makin’ one where there ain’t.”

He turned back to his desk. Ava stared at him, cold dread pooling in her stomach. The radio played softly behind him. She walked home beneath the flickering lights, whispering to herself: “See you later, Ava gator.”

The Vault Boy nodded in the dark.