Morning came without urgency.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, pale and unarmed. No alarms. No coded knocks. No sudden need to be someone else.
Aria woke on the couch, chips forgotten on the table, crumbs marking the night like evidence of peace. For a brief moment, instinct kicked in—count exits, listen for movement—
Then she stopped.
Listened again.
Coffee brewing.
Footsteps.
Murmured voices arguing about whose turn it was to clean.
Normal.
She sat up.
In the kitchen, Noah was half-awake, leaning against the counter while Scar-Jaw fumbled with a pan. Two others were scrolling news feeds, expressions bored instead of alert.
No one jumped when she entered.
No one straightened.
"Morning," someone said.
She nodded. "You're burning it."
Scar-Jaw looked down. "Damn it."
She took the spatula from his hand without ceremony, flipped the food once, and handed it back.
"Lower heat."
"Yes—" He caught himself. Smiled. "…Thanks."
That was how it happened.
Not with forgiveness.
Not with closure speeches.
The past didn't apologize.
It didn't explain itself.
It simply… stopped demanding attention.
They didn't ask her to remember who she was.
Didn't ask her to return.
Didn't ask her to carry anything.
They carried their own weight now.
Later, as they dispersed—work, errands, lives inching forward—Aria stayed by the window, watching them go.
Noah paused at the door. "We'll be back."
"I know," she said.
And she did.
The ghosts didn't follow them out.
They stayed behind, quiet, finally unneeded.
For the first time in a long time, the past stood down—
And let her live.