Jay didn't realize how tired he was until he sat down.
Not the bone-deep exhaustion from sleepless nights or the strain of fractured time—
but the kind that settles into your chest when you've been holding yourself together for too long.
The city was calm again.
Too calm, maybe.
Morning light filtered through his window, pale and soft, painting the room in muted gold. The hum beneath the world—the one only he seemed to hear—had quieted. Not gone. Just… resting.
Jay stared at his phone for a long moment.
He hadn't called home in weeks.
Not because anything was wrong.
Not because they didn't care.
But because when life starts pulling you in too many directions, you forget how grounding a familiar voice can be.
He exhaled slowly and tapped the screen.
It rang twice.
Then—
"Jay?"
His mother's voice came through the speaker, warm and familiar, like a blanket pulled over cold shoulders.
"Mother," Jay said softly.
There was a pause on the other end.
Not the awkward kind.
The kind where someone realizes they've missed you.
"You finally remembered your parents exist," she said, pretending to scold him. "I was beginning to think the great city of Aryavart swallowed you whole."
Jay smiled.
"Not yet."
He leaned back against the bed, closing his eyes.
"How are you?" she asked.
Jay almost gave the automatic answer.
I'm fine.
But instead, he said,
"I'm… better today."
That earned him another pause.
Hima didn't push. She never did.
"That's good," she said gently. "Better is enough."
A new voice cut in from the background.
"Is that Jay?!"
The sound was sharp, energetic, unmistakable.
Jay winced slightly.
"…Yukimin?"
"HEY!" his younger sister shouted into the phone. "You didn't text back! I sent you a picture of my science project!"
"I saw it," Jay said quickly. "The volcano thing, right?"
"It's not a volcano, it's a pressure-reactive eco-core simulation," Yukimin snapped. "Get it right."
Jay laughed—actually laughed.
"Wow," he said. "You're twelve and already scarier than me."
"She gets that from you," Hima said dryly.
"Hey—"
"Jay Arkwell!" another voice joined the call, calm and steady, his father.
"Dad," Jay said, his voice softening.
Jorge Arkwell never raised his voice.
He didn't need to. He had the kind of presence that made you straighten up even through a screen.
"Your mother says you sound tired," Jorge said. "Are you eating properly?"
Jay hesitated.
"…Mostly."
"Define 'mostly.'"
Jay sighed. "Instant coffee counts as breakfast, right?"
There was a pause.
Then—
"No," both parents said at the same time.
Yukimin giggled loudly.
They talked about small things.
School.
Weather in their city.
Yukimin's upcoming competition.
Jorge's work at the urban planning bureau.
Normal things.
Safe things.
Jay listened more than he spoke, letting their voices fill the quiet corners inside him. The sound of his family—imperfect, familiar, alive—felt like an anchor.
At some point, Yukimin asked, quieter than before,
"Jay… are you okay? Like, really?"
Jay opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him looked ordinary.
No symbols.
No distortions.
Just home.
"I think so," he said honestly. "I've just been… thinking a lot."
His father, Jorge spoke gently.
"Thinking isn't a bad thing. But don't let it convince you that you have to carry everything alone."
Jay swallowed.
His mother, Hima added softly,
"You don't need to be extraordinary to be loved, Jay."
Something in his chest tightened.
He looked down at his hands—hands that once felt tied to something vast and unknowable.
"I know," he said quietly. "I just… forget sometimes."
Yukimin snorted.
"Then remember harder. That's what you always tell me."
Jay chuckled.
"Guess I should listen to my own advice."
Before ending the call, Hima said,
"When your term break starts, come home."
Jay hesitated.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because part of him was afraid—
afraid that stepping into a place untouched by fractures would make everything feel too real.
"We'll cook your favorite," she added.
Jorge nodded. "And I'll make sure Yukimin doesn't interrogate you the entire time."
"Hey!"
Jay smiled.
"…Yeah," he said. "I'll come home."
When the call ended, the room felt warmer.
Not because anything changed.
But because something had stayed the same.
Jay set the phone down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling again.
For the first time since the Clock Tree, since the river, since the place beneath the city—
he didn't feel like a listener.
He felt like a son.
A brother.
A person who belonged somewhere.
And maybe—
just maybe—
that was enough to keep time from asking too much of him.
Jay closed his eyes, breathing slowly.
Outside, the city continued its quiet rhythm.
And somewhere beneath it, the clock slept peacefully—
content, for now, to let Jay Arkwell be exactly who he was.