The First Glader

11

One evening, while reinforcing a corner of the shelter, a low rumble echoed through the Maze. Not one of the nightly shifts—something different. A deeper vibration, almost like a warning.

Ada stiffened. The others looked up instantly.

"Shank, you good?" George asked, tone light but gaze focused.

Ada nodded slowly, eyes narrowing at the Maze. "It's... different tonight."

Alby joined her side. "Different how?"

Ada didn't answer immediately. She just listened. Felt. The walls groaned, but the ground itself hummed—once, faintly, like a heartbeat beneath the dirt.

Then it stopped.

Nick exhaled. "Maze shift?"

Ada shook her head. "No. That was... something else."

Alby crossed his arms, alert. "The Box?"

Maybe. The timing was right. Another month had passed.

But that didn't explain the unease settling in her chest.

She didn't sleep that night. None of them really did. They sat near the fire, talking in low voices, occasionally glancing toward the dark outline of the Box doors. At dawn, Ada went to the clearing alone and carved a tally mark into her stone—Day 120.

Before she even finished the mark, she felt it.

A faint tremor under her boots.
The whisper of machinery far below.
Metal shifting.
Gears engaging.
The deep, rhythmic thud she dreaded and anticipated in equal measure.

Someone was coming.

Ada stood in the still morning air as the boys emerged from the shelter behind her. Nick moved to her left. George hovered at her right. Alby came to stand just behind her shoulder, watchful.

They waited.

The ground shook again.

The Box was rising.

And Ada didn't know that inside it was a boy who would change everything. A boy with a fractured leg, a quiet fire in his chest, and a gentleness that would carve itself into the heart of the Glade.

Newt.

The sun crested the walls.

The Box began its ascent.

And Ada's world—again—was about to grow.

The rumbling began before sunrise, low and rhythmic beneath the dirt. By the time the sun cleared the walls, the ground vibrated in a familiar way—subtle, but unmistakable. The four of them stood around the clearing in a loose semicircle, waiting.

The Box rose at its usual slow, grinding pace. Ada kept her expression still, but her hands clasped behind her back to hide the tension. Every arrival hit her like an echo of her own.

Nick watched the metal rise with steady composure. Alby stood tall, shoulders squared, ready for anything. George paced in erratic circles like an overheated puppy.

"Okay," George muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If this one pops out screaming, I'm running straight into the woods."

Ada didn't bother responding. Alby rolled his eyes. Nick elbowed George in the ribs.

The final lock clicked.

The latches snapped open on their own.

The four of them stepped forward.

Ada looked down into the Box—and her chest tightened.

A boy lay curled near the center, breathing fast, fingers knotted into the fabric of his shirt. He looked barely fifteen—too thin, too pale, limbs trembling like he'd been dropped from a great height and wasn't sure the ground was real. His light brown hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes were squeezed shut against the bright morning air.