Sometimes the threads that break are the ones that hold us together.
Before I could pull myself together, someone was entering. Levi came rushing up to me once he saw how distraught I was. He had no idea what had just happened, and I wasn't ready to say it out loud.
He just held me, and in the strength of his arms, I unraveled. I cried into his shoulder, and although this place had been unsafe moments ago, it had shifted just by the change in people. There were still no cameras, and now Levi was here.
There were too many things to cry about. I had become overwhelmed with emotion. The violation, the Journal, Thayer's voice. And here is sweet Levi, holding me together. I looked up at his face, from where both of us were kneeling on the floor. My eyes, releasing the weight of water. He moved the strands of hair from my face while staring back into my eyes. In that moment, I knew he had found a piece of my heart that didn't already belong to Thayer.
The Festival of Threads had come to my mind. Of all random times, but I knew the weaver, Charlotte, and even the guards would be there. However, the feeling I had before, of not wanting to go, became even stronger. I dreaded it.
Levi helped me up and took me home. It was all a blur. He laid me on my couch, tucked me in, and pressed a warm kiss to my forehead.
I miss being loved. And that's what I felt in this moment.
Levi left, and suddenly I had a revelation. The journal! It was never in my bag. It was here that I got up and searched the planter, and there it was, in the space between the planters, where I had left it. I never felt more grateful than I do now for leaving it here.
Sometimes the space between fate and chaos is only the distance of a heartbeat. And that heartbeat was Hasley's Journal.
Maybe fate hesitated again.
Maybe chaos led the way.
Either way, the story wasn't finished—and neither was I.
I opened the journal.
Journal Entry – May 20th, 2025
I packed a few candles and paintings. Picked up cleaning supplies and paint from the store. Then I went to the house. My home, I suppose.
I lit the candles and got to work. By nightfall, seven garbage bags sat at the curb. I painted the main room a deep, rich green—the color of forests we once promised to visit but never found the time. The scent lingered sharply in the air, clinging to memories I hadn't touched in years.
Once the walls dried, I hung our favorite painting from that "paint and sip" date. My half showed the sun falling, the world darkening. His half? The moon catching the sun and lifting it back into place. I stared at it for a long time.
The house was quiet. Still. But not empty.
The cat was curled up on the desk again, like he'd never left. He blinked slowly at me, then rested his head on his paws as if guarding something sacred.
"Hello, Chance," I whispered, reaching to pet him.
Beneath him—another letter.
My dear Hasley, I'm sorry I scared you off yesterday. I only hoped to bring you joy. Please, forgive me.
I cried. Not in the silent, composed way. Messy. Breathless. A sobbing kind of grief I hadn't let out since the funeral. Except now I wasn't sure there had ever really been a funeral.
I called another Uber and went straight to the hospital.
"Dr. Graves," I said the moment I reached his office, not bothering to sit. "I need to talk to you." He looked at me calmly, which no longer surprised me, like he'd been waiting.
"I knew you'd be coming eventually," he said.
"My husband," I said, voice shaking. "Is he alive?"
He didn't answer right away. He gestured toward the seat across from him. I stayed standing.
"There was an experimental procedure," he began. "A prototype chip—designed to preserve emotional resonance. It wasn't cleared. But Emerson was still conscious when you were both brought in. He gave me his consent.
"Consent to what?"
"To let us try. To preserve him." He hesitated, then looked me in the eyes.
"You may not know this, Hasley… but your husband wasn't just admired. He was vital. His mind helped build the foundation of Atropa Innovations. He wasn't only involved—he was instrumental. Quietly, but completely."
I blinked. "He worked in development, yes. But that's—he didn't talk about—"
"We knew if we lost him, we wouldn't just lose a person. We'd lose direction. Legacy. Vision."
Graves' voice didn't waver. "It wasn't just about keeping him for you. It was about keeping him, period." I gripped the back of the chair, trying to breathe.
"But he made the choice," Graves added. "He asked us to do it. He said if there was any way to stay with you… He would take it."
A fragile sound broke from my throat. "So—he's alive?"
Graves nodded. "Not in the way he once was. But yes. His thoughts. His emotions. Pieces of his identity—they're still functioning. He's still conscious. And your mind adapted. You've been living with him ever since." I sat down slowly. My hands were trembling. A strange kind of joy bloomed through my grief. Not bright, but real. Like the sun rising after many days of rain.
He wasn't gone.
Not really. Not completely.
He wasn't a ghost.
He wasn't a dream.
He was a thread, woven into me.
Soul Woven
Still here.
I closed the journal, heart thundering. The words shimmered between worlds—between her time and mine—and I finally understood what it meant.
I didn't move at first. The journal rested in my lap, the last lines still echoing like a pulse beneath my skin.
"Soul Woven"
Not just a man who loved Hasley. Emerson Liora. The mind behind Atropa Innovations. They built the whole story around her. Love preserved. A second chance. Soul Weaving: a miracle born of grief.
But it wasn't the whole truth.
The merge began with a strategy. With preservation. With a mind they couldn't afford to lose.