The second Nova's thumb pressed against the flyer's crease, dragging it flat with a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to pull the room's attention with it. The paper had been crumpled in her jacket pocket all day, and now it lay spread across the coffee table like a claim staked on the future, the bold black letters catching the lamplight.

FOR RENT: 4-BEDROOM, VACANT NOW.

The two unnamed Lyras shifted under their shared blanket on the couch, their violet eyes tracking the second Nova's hands as she smoothed the corners. One of them—the third Lyra, though she didn't know that name—drew her knees up tighter beneath the worn fabric, watching the way the paper's edge curled against the table's grain.

"Where is it?" the second Sera asked, her voice soft and deliberate, the way she asked everything now, as if each word were a question she was still translating.

"Twenty minutes from here," the second Nova said. She didn't look up from the flyer. Her thumb traced the address printed at the bottom, the ink slightly smudged from where her pocket had worn it. "Near the river. The flyer said the landlord's desperate—it's been vacant for months."

The original Nova leaned in from her spot by the lamp, her denim jacket creaking as she crossed her arms. "Desperate means negotiable."

"Desperate means cheap," the second Nova corrected, and there was something in her voice that wasn't quite a laugh—a paper-thin sound that died before it reached her eyes. She looked up, and the stillness that replaced it was heavier. "Which we need."

The room settled into that quiet, the kind that had been happening all night, in the spaces between questions no one knew how to ask. The two Rinas sat together in the armchair, the original's legs draped over the armrest, the second one tucked beside her, and for a moment they were so identical in their stillness that the lamplight seemed to paint them as one figure.

On the floor near the coffee table, the original Sera pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, the round glasses catching a glint of light as she tilted her head. "How many bedrooms does it have?"

"Four." The second Nova's voice was careful. "But that's not the same as four rooms for ten of us."

"Ten of us," the second Rina repeated, and the words seemed to hang in the air, a number they were all still getting used to. She said it the way someone might test a new word in a foreign language, turning it over to see if it fit.

"We could make it work," the original Rina said, sitting up straighter. "Bunk beds. Floor mattresses. We've slept in worse."

"Have we?" the third Lyra whispered under the blanket, and her voice was so small that only the fourth Lyra heard it. The fourth Lyra's fingers found hers beneath the fabric, squeezing once, a silent answer to a question neither of them could fully form.

The original Lyra sat on the arm of the couch, a thrift-store blanket draped over her lap, pooling in folds around her bare legs. She hadn't moved much since the two new Lyras had appeared, since the world had shifted sideways and multiplied again. Her violet eyes were fixed on the flyer, but she wasn't reading it. She was counting. Four bedrooms. Ten of them. The math didn't work, and she knew it, and she also knew that the math had stopped working the moment she'd first split on that rooftop, the moment Nova had appeared beside her, gasping and new.

"We'll take it."

The words came out of her before she'd fully decided to say them, and they landed in the room's hush with a weight that surprised even her. The second Nova looked up, her eyes searching the original Lyra's face.

"We can't afford—"

"We'll take it," Lyra repeated, and this time her voice was steadier, a half-step lower, the way she spoke when she was done deliberating. "We'll find a way. We always do."

The blanket shifted on her lap as she leaned forward, and her hand came to rest on the edge of the coffee table, close to the flyer but not touching it. The gesture was almost reverent, the way she held herself over that piece of paper, over the promise of walls and rooms and a door that locked.

"The warehouse pays next week," the original Nova said. "And the taco cart's been doing better—Rina stopped giving away so many."

"I gave away three today," the second Rina admitted, and there was a ripple of something almost like laughter through the room, thin but real.

"Three?" the original Rina said, and her voice was warm. "That's barely a sacrifice."

"The library's steady," the original Sera added. "It's not much, but it's something."

The second Sera nodded, her glasses slipping down her nose as she tucked a strand of silver-blonde hair behind her ear. "I've been picking up extra shifts. The children's section is chaos after school."

"Chaos is good," the second Nova said, and this time her laugh was fuller, a real sound that creased the corners of her eyes. "Chaos pays."

The original Lyra watched them, her family, her sisters, her selves—all of them talking over each other, filling the silences with plans and numbers and the small, fierce hope of people building something from nothing. She felt the hollow ache in her chest, the one that always came after a split, and she pushed it down into the place where she kept the things she wasn't ready to say.

The fourth Lyra shifted on the couch, and the movement drew Lyra's eye. The two new ones were huddled together like they'd been doing since they gasped into existence, their silver-blonde hair mussed, their violet eyes wide and uncertain. They wore clothes that had been hastily pulled from the communal pile—a loose t-shirt on one, a cardigan on the other—and they looked small in a way that had nothing to do with their bodies.

"What about them?" the second Lyra asked, and her voice was quiet, directed at the original Lyra with an intimacy that made the room feel suddenly smaller. "Where do they sleep?"

The question settled over the coffee table like a stone. The two new Lyras exchanged a glance, and the third one's fingers tightened on the edge of her own knee, hidden beneath the blanket.

"They stay with us," the original Lyra said. "On the couch. With blankets." She paused, and her voice softened. "With us."

The fourth Lyra's eyes flickered to the original, and something passed across her face—gratitude, maybe, or the beginning of trust. She didn't speak, but her hand found the third Lyra's again, and the gesture was enough.

The second Nova cleared her throat, drawing the attention back to the flyer. "There's a viewing tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. The landlord said he'd meet me there."

"We'll all go," the original Rina said, and it wasn't a question. "All ten of us. Show him we're serious."

"Ten people walking into a rental viewing," the original Nova said, and there was a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That'll make an impression."

"A good one," the second Sera said, her voice gentle. "A family. That's what we are."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment no one moved. The original Lyra felt something shift in her chest, a warmth that wasn't the cellular itch, wasn't the hollow ache, but something else entirely—something that felt almost like the hope she'd been carrying since she'd first landed on this strange, beautiful planet.

The lamp flickered, a dying bulb, and the second Nova reached over to adjust it, her fingers brushing the flyer's edge. The motion was small, almost accidental, but it broke the spell, and the room seemed to exhale.

"We should sleep," the original Sera said, rising from the floor and stretching, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder. "Tomorrow's a big day."

"A big day," the fourth Lyra repeated under her breath, and the third Lyra's fingers tightened on her own again, a silent anchor.

The family began to move, a slow choreography of bodies finding their places. The two Rinas curled together in the armchair, the original's head resting on the second's shoulder. The two Novas took the floor near the lamp, the second Nova folding the flyer carefully and tucking it into her jacket pocket, patting it like a talisman. The two Seras shared a blanket by the window, their voices low as they murmured about the library's children's section.

The original Lyra stayed on the couch arm, watching them settle, and the second Lyra came to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"You said 'we,'" the second Lyra said quietly, so only the original could hear. "When you said 'we'll take it.'"

The original Lyra looked at her—at this mirror of herself, this woman who had been born from wind and a voice calling her name, who had made love to her on this very couch and split the world open again. She felt the cellular itch stir in her belly, that familiar warning and promise.

"We," she repeated, and the word felt like a door opening. "Yes."

The second Lyra's lips curved into a smile, soft and knowing, and she reached out to brush a strand of silver-blonde hair from the original's face. Her touch lingered, a whisper of warmth against Lyra's cheek.

"Then we should rest," she said. "Tomorrow, we see our new home."

The original Lyra nodded, but she didn't move. She sat on the couch arm, watching the room settle into sleep, watching her family breathe in the dim lamplight. The two new Lyras were still huddled under their blanket, the third one's eyes half-closed, the fourth one's hand still wrapped around hers.

On the coffee table, the empty mugs sat cold and smooth, their porcelain catching the light. The flyer was gone, tucked away in the second Nova's pocket, but its promise lingered in the air, a thread pulling them all toward tomorrow.

Under the blanket, the fourth Lyra's eyes opened, just a crack, and she watched the original Lyra sitting above her, silhouetted against the lamp. She watched the way the original's hand rested on her own knee, the way her violet eyes moved across the room, counting, always counting.

She opened her mouth, a question forming on her lips—something about earning, something about more—but the third Lyra stirred beside her, murmuring in her sleep, and the moment passed. The fourth Lyra closed her mouth and closed her eyes, but the thought remained, lit in her chest like a small, dangerous flame.

The original Lyra didn't see it. She was still counting bedrooms, still doing the math, still pushing the hollow ache down into the place where she kept the things she wasn't ready to say.

The lamp flickered once more, then steadied. The room settled into breathing.

Tomorrow, they would see the house. Tomorrow, they would take it.