Greta sits at her desk, papers neatly stacked, laptop open, and pen poised. She does not hesitate. There is no other way to act without leaving Brahms alone.
"Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire,
My name is Greta Evans. I am writing because I know your son, Brahms, is alive."
She pauses for a second, then continues, her words measured, precise.
"I understand that soulmarks are a known phenomenon, and that their appearance confirms the survival of the bonded individual. My mark appeared on my eighteenth birthday, indicating that I am bonded to Brahms. I include a certified copy of my birth certificate as proof of identity and confirmation of this bond.
I am aware that he survived the fire. I am aware that he has been hidden. I am aware that decisions were made—decisions that removed him from the world for reasons I will not judge.
I do not seek to punish. I do not seek to control.
I only ask to meet him. To ensure he is not left alone any longer than necessary."
Greta signs the letter neatly at the bottom. She folds it carefully and tucks the certified copy of her birth certificate alongside it. Her movements are deliberate, unhurried.
The system hums softly in acknowledgement.
[RISK ESCALATION DETECTED
Action: Contact with Bonded Survivor's Guardians
Threat Level Increased]
Greta leans back in her chair and surveys her packing checklist. Clothes, travel documents, shoes, basic necessities.
[Mission #2 — Choose the Dangerous Truth
Objective: Initiate contact with bonded survivor's guardians
Risk Level: High
Reward: Pending Arrival
• System Credits
• Totoro-Aligned Stabilization Item]
The envelope is sealed. The risk is committed. The path is locked.
Greta traces the edge of the envelope with her fingertips.
She understands this choice removes the old life she had built, the small routines, the quiet café, the friends who do not know the truth of her once lived life.
There is no going back.
She posts the letter the next morning.
And she feels only alignment.
Truth over safety.
The system hums, accepting her choice. Somewhere across the ocean, behind walls that have listened far too long, something shifts.