The echoing drip of water was the only sound that greeted Frisk as they stepped into the next cavern. Waterfall, once a place of quiet peace and forgotten stories, now felt like a mausoleum. The dim bioluminescent glow that clung to the mossy walls flickered weakly, as if even the light had begun to retreat.
Frisk walked onward.
Behind them, Chara followed—slower than before, her feet dragging, eyes unfocused. She hadn't spoken in a while. Not really. Only a few disjointed murmurs, half-formed thoughts that leaked from her lips like fog.
"This place used to hum..." she muttered, tracing her fingers across a glowing wall. "Like a lullaby… where did the music go?"
Her words didn't reach Frisk.
They didn't look back.
The path twisted through soft shadows and old memories. Echo Flowers lined the walls, once used by monsters to share stories and jokes. Now they replayed their last words over and over.
"I heard Asgore is going to collect the last soul soon."
"Don't be scared! We're going to be free one day!"
"Let's meet by the waterfall after work, okay?"
Their voices echoed back at Frisk like ghosts.
A group of monsters stood ahead. They had gathered near a crumbling bridge, faces set with grim determination—spear-wielders, spellcasters, even a young Temmie who shook behind a brave expression.
One monster, a former Royal Guard with a scar down his face, stepped forward.
"We know what you've done," he said.
Another monster stepped beside him. "We won't let you go further. We've lost too much already."
Chara finally looked up. Her expression shifted—a flicker of something between hope and dread.
Frisk didn't stop walking.
The first blow was silent. A flash of red.
The monsters fought with desperation, not skill. Their attacks were fueled by fear, and their defenses cracked like ice under fire.
One by one, they fell.
The Temmie was the last to go, shielding the fallen with tiny arms. Her final whimper echoed longer than the others.
When the dust cleared, only Frisk remained.
Chara stood at the edge of the carnage, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"This isn't what I wanted," she whispered. "This isn't what I wanted this to be."
She looked at Frisk as if trying to recognize something inside him—but there was nothing in his eyes. Only the faintest flicker, like the light of a star that died long ago.
As they moved deeper, Chara's voice became fractured, twitchy. She spoke in riddles, in scattered thoughts, sometimes forgetting who she was speaking to.
"They were brave, weren't they? That last one… he didn't cry. That was brave, right?"
"Did you see the look on his face? Why can I still see it?"
She stopped talking after that.
Not because she was done.
But because she no longer knew what to say.
—
Atop Mt. Ebott, the rain had softened to a steady mist. The girl still sat opposite the man, the fire between them now glowing faint and orange. Her book lay open across her lap, her fingers resting on a blank page.
She watched the fire like it might burn the images from her mind. Her shoulders had tensed. She hadn't made a gesture in some time.
But now she lifted a hand—touched her temple, then held it toward the sky.
The man watched, understanding the question: "Is she losing herself?"
He nodded slowly.
"She's fading," he said, voice hushed. "Piece by piece. The more she sees, the less of her remains."
He turned his hooded head slightly, as though looking toward the memory of the path just told.
"And still… he keeps walking."
The girl clutched the book tightly. Her thumb traced the edge of the page, not turning it.
Not yet.