The morning breaks slow and gray.
Clouds hang low over the city like a bruise healing from within, bruised purple giving way to ash. Smoke still curls upward from somewhere deep below, the remnants of what we left buried in the earth.
Eidolon is gone. At least, the part we could reach.
Mara lies beside me on the damp grass of an overlooked hillside. She's half‑asleep, lashes trembling, her breathing unsteady but alive. The world feels impossibly quiet after so much chaos. Even the birds haven't found their courage yet.
I sit up, wincing. My ribs ache; my hands are scraped raw. The flash drive—our only copy of the remaining data—rests in my pocket, still pulsing faintly, a dying ember of light. Half of me wants to crush it under my heel; the other half wants to keep it safe. Proof of life, proof of what we were.
Mara stirs. "Is it morning?"
Her voice is soft, dazed.
"Something like it," I answer.
She pushes herself upright, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her hair clings damply to her face, and when she turns her head toward me, I see uncertainty flicker through her eyes—a question without words.
"Did we really stop it?" she whispers.
I look out across the skyline. The city's lights blink weakly; traffic crawls again, ignorant of anything that's happened underground. "We stopped *this* part of it. Whether others remain…" I shake my head. "We'll find out."
She nods slowly. "And me?"
I meet her gaze. Beneath exhaustion, something new burns there—not fear anymore but quiet resolve.
"You *are* you," I tell her. "Whatever they made, whatever they thought they controlled—you've chosen who you are. That's real."
Tears thread her lashes, but she smiles, small and real. "Then maybe that's enough."
The silence that follows isn't heavy this time. It's full of space—like breathing after being underwater too long.
***
By evening we reach a safe house outside the city: a ruined chapel half reclaimed by moss and ivy. The wooden pews lie collapsed; a single stained‑glass window survives, splintering the dying sunlight into threads of crimson and gold.
It feels honest, this place—broken but still standing.
Mara sits by the window tracing the shards of color across her fingers. "It's beautiful," she says.
"Like something that refuses to forget what it was," I reply, dropping my pack and rubbing my aching neck.
She studies me for a moment, head tilted. "That sounds like you."
I laugh under my breath. "Then we're both relics."
Her smile deepens, fading almost as quickly. "And Elias?"
The name still tastes bitter. "There's no sign he escaped the collapse. But with him, certainty's a luxury I don't believe in anymore."
She leans back, gaze drifting toward the cracked ceiling. "He believed he was saving the world. In a way, that's the worst kind of villainy."
"Belief without conscience always is."
The rain begins again, soft and rhythmic, pattering against the cracked panes. For the first time in days, the sound is calm instead of foreboding.
***
Later, by the faint glow of a kerosene lamp, I examine the flash drive. A small red light blinks irregularly—alive but weakening.
Mara watches quietly from the other side of the room. "That thing still scares me," she murmurs. "It's everything we escaped from. Why keep it?"
"Because it's also everything we destroyed." I turn the device over in my palm. "I want to remember how close we came to losing ourselves."
She stands, crosses the small space between us, and rests her hand over mine. Her touch is warm despite the chill. "Maybe we start remembering different things."
The closeness steals my breath. Her eyes—those impossible eyes that haunted every false memory—are here now, imperfect and present. When she tilts her head, light glimmers in the pale streaks of her hair, catching the amber from the lamp.
"Mara—"
"No more maybes."
She leans in, tentative but certain, the kiss soft as the rain outside, steady as the heartbeat I thought I'd forgotten how to feel. For the first time since Eidolon, there's no static between us—only heat, breath, and the quiet certainty of being alive.
When we part, she rests her forehead against mine. "Does this feel real?"
"It's the only thing that does," I whisper.
We stay like that a long time, until exhaustion wins and the night folds gently around us.
***
The next morning dawns colder, crisper. I wake to light filtering through the fractured glass, painting the floor in patterns of red and gold. Mara sleeps curled against my arm, her breathing even. For a moment, I let peace exist.
Then I notice the faint hum.
It's coming from the flash drive.
I slip free carefully, kneeling beside the table where it rests. The light isn't fading anymore—it's steady. Strong. Data refolding, rebuilding itself despite yesterday's destruction.
"What are you doing?" Mara asks behind me, voice thick with sleep. She rises, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.
"It's regenerating," I say. "Eidolon's still in there."
She goes still. "Then it never ends."
"Not unless we decide what to do with it."
Outside, the wind picks up, scattering a handful of brittle leaves through the broken doorway. I watch them swirl before landing on the floor between us, small remnants of something that once lived.
"We could release what's left," I suggest quietly. "Expose it. Let the world see what was done."
"And make more echoes?"
"Maybe." I sigh. "Or maybe the truth finally breaks the cycle."
She hesitates, then takes the drive from my hand. "Then we choose truth."
Using the laptop's last charge, we upload the remaining files to an encrypted network buried beyond corporate reach. Lines of code stream upward one last time—data dispersing like ashes into the digital wind.
When the final line clears, the screen goes black.
Mara exhales, almost laughing. "It's over."
"Or beginning again," I say softly.
She closes the laptop. "Then tomorrow, it begins *our* way."
***
We leave the chapel that afternoon. The clouds part just enough to reveal patches of pale blue, sunlight bleeding through like forgiveness. The city in the distance still smolders, faint plumes of smoke curling above its towers, but life thrums again beneath the ruin.
Along the road, people hurry to rebuild power grids, sweep glass, and take inventory of loss. No one looks at us twice; maybe that's mercy.
Mara reaches for my hand. "You think they'll ever know what really happened?"
"Maybe not," I reply. "Maybe they don't need to."
We walk on, the silence between us no longer tense but full—alive with what's unsaid but understood.
At the top of the hill, she stops and looks back. "What comes next?"
I meet her gaze, smile faintly. "Something that belongs to us."
She laughs quietly, and for the first time in too long, I picture a future that isn't written by someone else's algorithm—just the uncertain, flawed, human kind.
The sun breaks free of the last cloud, spilling light over her face and the city below.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, the echoes finally fade, leaving only us—two imperfect souls walking toward whatever comes after.