The garden stood quiet—not still, for stillness implies finality. This quiet was alive. Like breath between words, or the hush before a child speaks their first thought aloud.
In the distance, beyond rivers shaped from remembrance and trees fed by starlight, the child walked alone.
Not lost.
Just listening.
Each step awakened roots of forgotten stories. Broken possibilities once discarded now reached for sunlight. Where once the child had been a blank, an echo, a gap in reality's fabric—now it was something else entirely.
Something becoming.
It paused beneath a flowering arch of shadowglass, where reality folded inward like petals. The whispers here weren't voices—they were intentions. The dreams of those who had perished without ever being known. Not ghosts. Not memories.
Just… seeds.
And one of them spoke.
Not in sound, but in certainty.
"You are not what was missing. You are what was made."
The child felt it. Not fear. Not destiny.
Belonging.
A ripple passed through the soil of the multiverse.
Orion stood at the edge of the sky, where the stars now bowed to no master. He watched as constellations redrew themselves. The Tower That Remembers had crumbled not into ruin, but into rootwork. Its memories fed the world instead of caging it.
He placed a hand on the ground.
It responded with warmth.
He no longer needed to burn to feel alive.
Lyra knelt beside a stream that sang her forgotten name. The Voidfire in her veins had cooled—no longer a weapon, but a symphony. Her flame now healed. It sculpted. It taught.
She was not flame alone.
She was the hearth.
Kael wandered the edge of time's horizon, where old blades rusted and became flowers. His weapon remained sheathed, not out of peace—but out of purpose. He'd fought long enough to know that war was never the end.
Now, he built paths. Taught old enemies how to walk without rage.
In the center of the garden, beneath the flower born of the fourth choice, the child sat beside a name not yet spoken.
And carved it into the air:
"I am not a consequence. I am a beginning."
The petals shimmered.
And in the distance, the Nameless watched from the fading veil—not as a witness.
But as a gardener.
Its form blurred into wind, into myth, into soil.
And so the last thread of the old multiverse unraveled…
…not into oblivion.
But into story.