The world does not end after Mira disappears.
That's what feels wrong about it.
No skies fall.
No alarms sound.
No cracks split the streets.
Two months pass like a held breath.
The city goes back to being a city. People laugh again. Sirens return to being ordinary. Classes resume. Homework piles up. Life insists on itself.
And yet—
You feel it.
Every time you walk through a doorway.
Every time you pass a mirror.
Every time the air grows slightly too still.
Something is waiting.
He notices it before you do, of course. He always does.
"They're preparing," he says one evening as you sit on the couch, staring at nothing.
"Preparing for what?" you ask, even though you already know.
"For you," he replies.
The two months that follow are not peaceful.
They are… instructional.
He doesn't train you like a soldier.
There are no drills. No yelling. No rigid schedules.
Instead, he teaches you how to exist differently.
"Your body is not the door," he explains one night as you stand in the middle of the living room, bare feet pressed against the floor. "Your attention is."
"Then why does it hurt when they touch me?" you ask.
"Because you try to close with muscle," he replies. "You have to close with meaning."
You don't understand that.
Not at first.
The first exercise nearly kills you.
He asks you to open the door.
Not fully.
Just a crack.
You do.
The hollow inside your chest yawns open—and instantly, the world sharpens violently. Colors become too vivid. Sounds too loud. You feel the emotional weight of everything around you like gravity.
You collapse to your knees, gasping.
"Too much," you choke.
"Yes," he agrees. "That's why we practice."
You hate him a little for that.
Some days, you cry during training.
Some days, you get angry.
Some days, you feel powerful in a way that terrifies you.
You learn how to shape what flows through you.
How to push.
How to pull.
How to refuse.
He teaches you how to sense things before they arrive—how the air tightens when something is watching, how the space between thoughts thickens when something is near.
"You are no longer prey," he tells you quietly one night. "You are a boundary."
You don't feel like one.
You feel like something fragile pretending to be important.
Mira doesn't come back.
But you feel her.
Sometimes in your dreams.
Sometimes when you laugh too hard.
Sometimes when you wake up missing something you can't name.
"You still love her," he says.
"Yes," you whisper.
"Good," he replies. "That will make this harder."
You flinch. "That's not comforting."
"No," he agrees. "It's honest."
Halfway through the second month, you ask him something you've been afraid to.
"If I lose," you say quietly, "what happens to me?"
He doesn't answer right away.
Then, "You will not be erased," he says. "But you will not remain yourself."
You stare at the floor.
"And if you lose?"
A pause.
"I already have," he says.
The training intensifies after that.
You learn how to form shields—not energy, but intention, hardening reality around you like a second skin.
You learn how to strike—focusing your will into compressed force that hits like a thought turned into impact.
You learn how to bleed without breaking.
Some nights you collapse shaking, unable to feel your hands.
Some nights you feel too much.
And through it all, he watches.
Protective.
Focused.
Afraid.
On the last night of the two months, the air changes.
You feel it before he says anything.
The pressure.
The attention.
"They're done preparing," you whisper.
"Yes," he says.
"And Mira?"
His gaze darkens.
"She is not alone anymore."
Your heart sinks.
You close your eyes.
"Then let them come."
He steps closer, placing a hand over your chest, right where the door lives.
"Whatever happens," he says quietly, "remember this—"
"What?"
"You were chosen," he says, "not because you were weak… but because you could endure."
Somewhere beyond the walls—
Something moves.
And the quiet finally breaks.