It begins with footsteps.
Not mine — theirs.A group of travelers following the same coastline I once walked, long after my footprints have been erased by tide and time.They move with purpose, but not urgency; the world no longer chases them.That, I think, is the first sign of peace becoming ordinary.
They don't know it, but they are walking through the ashes of what we built.And that's exactly how I wanted it.
I live further inland now, on the edge of a quiet ridge that overlooks the sea.The hut is small — two rooms, a stove, a desk that belonged to no one important.Most days I mend fishing gear, help traders fix old solar engines, sometimes write things no one will ever read.
The villagers call me the hermit from the cliffs.They leave food sometimes, ask for repairs, trade gossip.No one asks about the past.I never offer it.
The world doesn't need reminders.It needs gardeners.
Every evening, I climb the ridge to watch the horizon.The sea glows faintly beneath a fading sun, and the wind carries smells of salt and smoke from far-off fires.It's not the world I fought for.It's the world that grew from it.
A better one, because it doesn't owe me anything.
One afternoon, a girl appears at my door.Sixteen, maybe seventeen — thin, determined, carrying a pack too heavy for her frame.She bows politely, as the younger generation still does when they don't know what else to say.
"I'm looking for someone," she says.
"Most people are."
"They told me you might know about him." She unfolds a photograph — one of the ancient prints from the Archives, edges yellowed, half torn.It shows the plaza in Citadel during the broadcast.A man at the center, face half hidden by shadow.
"What do you want with him?"
"He wasn't like the others," she says quickly. "The records say he spoke once, then disappeared. They called him the last free man."
"That's a dangerous title."
She smiles. "That's why I liked it."
I study her for a long moment. Her eyes carry that same mixture of doubt and wonder I once saw in Uraraka — hope tempered by reason.
"You came a long way for a ghost."
"Ghosts leave lessons," she replies. "I want to find his."
"Maybe the lesson was disappearing."
She frowns. "You don't sound like someone who believes that."
"Belief and truth rarely share a bed."
She stays the night.We eat in silence.Outside, waves crash faintly against the cliffs below.
Before she sleeps, she asks, "If you could speak to him now, what would you ask?"
"Nothing."
"Why not?"
"Because some questions only exist to keep a story alive. And stories—"
I pause, watching the small fire flicker between us.
"—they're meant to end."
In the morning, she thanks me and leaves.At the edge of the path, she turns once more. "If I find him, I'll tell him someone here remembers."
"Don't," I say softly. "Let him rest."
She nods, unsure if I meant it.Then she's gone.
Her footsteps fade down the slope, swallowed by the wind.
I return to the ridge later that day.The sea looks the same — always does.But the horizon feels closer now, as if the world has finally shrunk to a size we can live inside.
I sit and open an old notebook — the one I've been writing in since I left Citadel.The pages are uneven, filled with fragments: small truths, half-finished sentences, things I didn't want to forget but didn't know how to say aloud.
On the last page, I write a single line:
If they still walk, then nothing I did was wasted.
I close the notebook and set it beside me.The wind catches a few loose pages and carries them out over the water.They flutter for a moment, then vanish — just words returning to where they belong.
The sun dips low.A fishing boat moves slowly along the horizon.Voices rise faintly from the deck — laughter, ordinary, unremarkable.
I smile.
Peace was never the end.It was the right to live without needing one.
I stay there until the light fades and the world becomes quiet again —not the silence of endings,but the stillness that comes when nothing is missing anymore.