Mei stayed after Jun left.
He'd offered her a ride on his imaginary soup cart ("There's no brakes, but there's flavor!"), and she'd declined with a small smile that meant everything. He knew she needed time. He always did.
The wind was gentler up here, brushing past the stones like it remembered them too. Mei stood in the remains of the observatory, her fingers trailing along the rusted rim of the telescope's frame. Her reflection flickered briefly in a broken lens — not quite the same girl who first arrived here. Not the same shadow.
Not an echo anymore.
She let out a slow breath, grounding herself in the now. No threads pulled her backward. No stories demanded her shape. The Threadwriter had once used her as a vessel — not cruelly, not knowingly. But she had held the weight of it, of someone else's vision, someone else's silence.
But now...
She was her own.
Mei sat where Jun had — legs dangling off the edge, hair tugged gently by the breeze. Below, the world shimmered with signs of healing. Scattered lights flickered on rooftops. Laughter rose faintly from the courtyard. Even the old developers — those strange, distant beings — hadn't interfered.
They were watching now. Just watching.
"Good," she murmured.
She drew a folded page from her pocket — one of the few left from the fragmented drafts. On it was a name scrawled in red ink.
Her old name. The one she never chose.
She held it up, let the sun hit it one last time.
Then, without drama, she let the wind take it.
The paper twisted once, caught the light, and vanished into the vastness.
"You're brooding again," Kaen muttered, flicking a pebble toward Elu's boot.
Elu didn't look up. "Not brooding. Thinking."
"Same difference." Kaen flopped back onto the grass, arms out like wings. "But fine. I'll wait."
The two sat in the middle of the old loopfield — the coded arena where simulations used to reset endlessly. Now it was just a field again. A bit overgrown. A few curious fireflies blinking out of season.
Kaen's red hair caught the gold light of the late afternoon. She hated sitting still, but she wasn't fidgeting today. That was Elu's first clue that things were really ending.
Elu closed her notebook — mostly diagrams now, not escape plans. "Do you ever wonder what version of us made it?"
Kaen snorted. "The one that survived. That's the best version, right?"
"Not always," Elu said, then tilted her head. "But maybe this time, yes."
They'd once fought to remember each other across timelines. In one version, Kaen had been erased halfway through a mission. In another, Elu had rewritten herself out of the world to keep Kaen safe. They'd found each other again because neither would stay gone.
"You're being sentimental," Kaen said, rolling onto her side and poking Elu in the shoulder. "You'll make me cry. And you know I hate crying."
"I do," Elu said, amused. "That's why I'm doing it."
Kaen narrowed her eyes. "You are evil."
"You say that every time I win an argument."
"Because I never win one!"
They laughed together — too hard, like kids who had survived something that should've broken them.
Then quiet fell again, but this time it was gentle.
"…Do we stay here?" Kaen asked finally.
Elu was quiet for a moment.
Then: "We can."
That was all either of them needed.
Kaen rolled onto her back again and let her fingers trace the clouds. "Fine. But only if I get to yell at the sky sometimes."
"I wouldn't dream of stopping you."