Light pulsed gently.
Tylor opened his eyes to find sky—not fractured or warped, but a serene dusk painted in purples and gold. Wind stirred tall grass. No spinning timelines, no echoing screams. Just silence.
He sat up. The field stretched forever, dotted with glassy trees that shimmered when touched by the sun. The air hummed softly, like it remembered songs from forgotten worlds.
Amaira stood a few feet away, barefoot, sketchbook tucked under one arm. She was drawing again. This time, not puzzles—just the horizon. Peaceful lines. Steady hands.
Kayla emerged from the tall grass, brushing pollen from her jacket. "Okay… we're definitely not dead. But this isn't home either."
Tylor turned slowly. "Is this another timeline?"
"No." Amaira didn't look up from her sketch. "It's between them. The Loom gave us a choice. It brought us here while it healed."
Kayla scanned the horizon. "You think the Chronarch's gone?"
Tylor stood, wiping dirt from his palms. "Not gone. Absorbed. Woven back in. But not in control anymore."
As if answering, the wind shifted—and from it, the faint echo of Elena's voice: "There will always be threads. But now, you choose how to weave them."
A glowing spiral formed in the sky. Inside it, scenes flickered—Moments from their lives. The Collective's fall. Clara's defeat. Daniel whispering, "I had to protect her." Lila's final smile.
Amaira reached for it. "We can go back. When the Loom finishes stabilizing. But it won't send us to exactly the same place."
Kayla nodded slowly. "Slight shifts. Different crayon marks again. Maybe a different scar. A tree missing. But… better. Free."
Tylor looked at them both.
"Then we go back. Together."
They stepped into the spiral.
And behind them, the field folded shut, like a page turned on a chapter long closed.
But far away—just past the edges of the healed Loom—one silver thread trembled.
Unseen.
Unclaimed.
Waiting.