The ribbon was still there.
Hiro found it tucked beneath his pillow, soft with age but vibrant as ever—scarlet silk folded with care. It wasn't a dream. He knew that now. The past had never truly ended; it had simply gone dormant.
Ayaka sat by the fire in their vast living room, humming gently as she brushed Haruka's hair. Her smile was patient. Her hands, loving. But Hiro's heart beat too loudly in his ears to hear the melody.
He clutched the ribbon and remembered.
It was the one Ayaka had tied around his wrist when they were children, whispering, "This is our promise. We'll be together. Forever."
She meant it.
He wandered out onto the balcony, the view of the cliffside garden and the sea stretching out endlessly. The air was cool, salt and petals carried on the wind. He tightened the ribbon around his fingers, a crimson tourniquet around memory.
Ayaka joined him not long after. She stood beside him, silent.
"You kept it," he said.
"I never let go," she replied, eyes fixed on the horizon.
He turned to face her. "Why leave it for me now?"
"Because you remembered," she whispered. "You remembered what it means."
A silence passed between them. Heavy. Painful. Beautiful.
"Did you hurt them, Ayaka? All of them?"
She didn't look away.
"Yes."
The answer wasn't cruel or dramatic. It was just truth.
"Even the ones who were only kind to me? Even the ones who didn't want anything?"
"Especially them," she said. "Because kindness was always the beginning. They all wanted you. They all would have taken you away."
Hiro's eyes burned.
"I tried to stop loving you," he said. "When the disappearances started. When I saw the blood. I told myself I couldn't love someone who would do that."
Ayaka's lips trembled. She took a step closer.
"But you do."
"Yes."
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.
"I tried to fight it. I tried to be good. But I can't run from you."
Ayaka took his hand and pressed it to her heart.
"You came to the cage on your own, Hiro. You locked the door behind you."
The next weeks blurred into a surreal peace. They walked through the halls of their villa like old souls returning to a place that never let them leave.
One morning, Hiro woke to the sound of soft crying. He followed it to the nursery, where Haruka sat curled in a corner.
She looked up at him with wide, tear-streaked eyes.
"The bird died," she whispered.
In her hands, a small sparrow—still warm.
"It wanted to fly away. So I hugged it too tight."
Hiro felt his blood turn cold.
Ayaka appeared in the doorway, silent. She didn't scold. Didn't panic.
She just knelt beside her daughter and gently took the bird.
"Sometimes love is too big for small things," Ayaka said.
Hiro sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.
He remembered what Misaki had said—something ancient. Something protective.
He had known it was in Ayaka.
Now he saw it in Haruka too.
That night, as they lay in bed, Hiro turned to Ayaka.
"We're raising a mirror."
"No," Ayaka whispered, tracing his face with her fingers. "We're raising someone who will love better than we did."
Hiro believed her. He had to.
Because the ribbon had returned.
And it was now tied around all three of their hearts.