The paper doll crumbled in their hands.
Rain ceased.
The sky opened with a silence so vast, it felt like the world had taken a breath and was holding it—waiting.
The protagonist turned toward the now-unearthed bundle. The burlap was gone. In its place: a small box, wooden, carved with symbols they didn't recognize but somehow understood.
Inside: a locket. Their name etched beside another.
"Ari."
The forgotten name carved itself into their mind like lightning burns into the skin of a tree. Ari—the friend, the sibling, the shadow that followed them in dreams and warned them of the crooked man. The one they were told never existed. The one they buried because no one believed. The one they tried to forget.
"I remember," they whispered.
And the wind returned—not angry, but calm. A soft exhale through the trees.
From behind them, a voice replied:
"So do I."
They turned.
There stood Ari—older now, spectral, eyes filled not with blame, but peace. The scratches from years of silence no longer marked their face.
Ari said, st"You broke the promise," epping forward, "but you remembered. That's enough."
Ari placed a hand over the locket—and dissolved into light.
The forest exhaled. The shadows unwound.
That night, the protagonist slept without dreams. For the first time in years, there was no whispering from the corners, no scratching beneath the floorboards.
In the morning, the earth behind the house had healed. No mud. No box. No bundle.
Just wildflowers.
And beneath them, the faint echo of laughter—free.