Maya's prediction was correct about one thing--the world changed drastically the next several months. A Civil War broke out, the second one seen by the North American continent in recorded history. The Ruling Council still had a measure of control over much of the former United States (albeit a tenuous one), and they quickly confiscated Glass's assets and property in retaliation of his defiance. Rural spots and burnt-out cities of wars long past soon became refuges for all those discontented with the status quo. The remaining members of the Machines of God disappeared, going underground just as Glass had.
Ruby had relatives back East whom she planned on staying with, but her farewill gift to her dear friend Glass was setting him up in an abandoned warehouse under an assumed name. Much of the population clamored for him to come and save them, to lead them, to crush the evil Chancellor, to tell them what God wants.
He refused. He went into seclusion and the only things he took with him was the antique radio and a picture of June. Sandoz, Psyche and Shaman went with him despite his protestations at being alone. "Besides," reasoned Sandoz. "Somebody has to look out for your bald ass."
"Has she always been this way?," Glass asked her brother.
"Pretty much," came the humorous reply. When she departed, leaving the two men alone, Shaman added, "You know how she feels about you."
"I know," Glass said quietly.
The red-haired man raised an eyebrow as the silence deepened.
"I don't think...I'll ever love anyone that way again, Shaman.."
"No one expects you to. I know what June meant to you."
"Just live for today, man. And don't break my sister's heart or I'll have your ass." Then he smiled.
"I'm sorry but I think there's only gonna be one one-and-only."
"Ahh, you still worried about God's silence." Conversations with telepaths often got weird. "Maybe the silence itself is a sign."
Glass had never thought of that--perhaps he had to figure things out for himself.
Time passes, four more years to be precise, and there are pockets of Ghost Children scattered throughout the country. They and others like them resisted the Council and waited for the Prophet to return. Glass allowed the courier entrance to his warehouse abode, wondering why his Ghost Children would risk direct communication with him. "It's important," Saturnine, the messenger, told him. He stood by silently.
Brow furrowed he opens the heavy leather case and reads the first page, a letter. His face pales as his eyes go back and forth across the page. Hands trembling he pulls out several large sheets of paper that a child has seemingly scrawled on. In big rounded letters it said:
Momma Lily said I cud rite a letter to you. So here goes. I live with the Ghost Children and Thunderjack in a big place in the mountains and theirs lots of other kids to play with. I nevver thoht that my Daddy would be Glass. Your everyone's hero! that's pretty awsome. I have a lot to learn before I can be like you tho. The other children are jealous cause your my daddy and the grownups are always trying to tell me things and I don't understand a lot of it. But oh well, my birthday is coming up soon I'll be 5 years old. I wish I cud see you I watch all the old hollovids of you and Mommy all the time. Well I got to go I hope to meet you someday I love you Daddy
Blinking back tears he sifts through drawings the girl had made for him. A big figure in crayon with a happy face and no hair was holding the hand of a smaller one in a dress with black hair. In another she was riding a pony with other kids and there were tall mountains and trees. Those bastards! Those insufferable, loyal, sneaky, wonderful Ghost Children bastards. He'd taught them well, he guessed. It was time he left his sanctuary and take another chance.
At that very moment Lily was telling the story of Glass to a group of children wide-eyed with wonder.
"Is he dead?," they asked.
"We don't think so. I believe he will return with the time is ripe," the blue-haired young woman replies. She'd matured into a solemn but compassionate woman who helped head this cell of resistance.
"And if not, we have the Prophet's child," puts in Stark, meaning the precocious little girl in his arms. She looked round with her wide-set blue eyes and scratched her raven head, then smiled. She had June's smile and her father's cheekbones. She was the Little Miracle--having been taken at only five months from her dying mother and kept alive by Snakeytooth's ill-gotten scientific equipment. Only as she was dying did June let down the block from her mind, and loose her big secret.
And so hope lives on. A slow dawn breaks upon a tired, ravaged but still-living world.