The room is silent now in a way that feels like screaming.
No more carved words. No more dripping walls. No more red light bleeding from the bulb. Only ordinary yellow glow, flat and merciless, washing over everything as though nothing ever happened. But something did happen. Your arms are empty. The shape of Selene is still burned into your skin—where her wings wrapped you, where her fingers dug into your back, where her mouth opened against yours like a wound finally allowed to breathe. You can still taste her. Lilies crushed with iron. Salt from tears that were no longer blood. Vanilla hidden beneath slaughter. Your knees hit the floorboards hard enough to bruise. You do not feel the pain. Pain would be something external. This is internal. This is the hollow space she left when she dissolved like mist in your arms. You press both palms flat against the wood. It is dry. Warm from your own body heat. No blood. No cracks. No proof. Yet your hands are shaking. You lift them slowly. Your fingers are clean. No crimson threads stretching between them anymore. No sticky residue. Nothing. But your lips burn. You touch them with trembling fingertips. They are swollen, sensitive, alive in a way the rest of you suddenly isn't. You trace the curve of your lower lip the way she did moments ago—slow, reverent, memorizing. A small sound escapes your throat. Not quite a sob. Not quite a moan. Something in between. Something that knows exactly what it has lost.You close your eyes.And memory arrives.Not gently. Not in fragments. In a single, brutal flood.You see yourself—not this you, but an older you, a crueler you—standing in this same room. The walls are already bleeding. The words are already carved. But this time you are the one holding the knife. The blade is small, delicate, almost beautiful. Silver handle. Curved edge. Your hand is steady as you drag it across plaster again and again, writing the same sentence in looping, obsessive strokes.YOU ARE THE KILLERYou laugh while you write. The laugh is yours. The same laugh that echoed in your skull earlier. Soft. Delighted. Without mercy.In the memory, Selene is already there. Kneeling. Wings torn. Dress soaked scarlet. She is looking up at you—not with hatred, not with fear. With sorrow so deep it makes your stomach turn over even now."Why?" she whispers in the memory. Voice cracking. "Why do you keep doing this?"You crouch in front of her. The knife is still dripping. You use the flat of the blade to lift her chin. Her eyes meet yours. Pale dawn blue. Shimmering. Broken."Because it feels good," you say in the memory. Voice calm. Almost tender. "Because when I hurt you, I finally feel something."You lean in. You kiss her then too. The kiss in the memory is different. It is possessive. Hungry. Cruel. You bite her lower lip until copper blooms between you both. She does not pull away. She leans into it. Lets you take. Lets you hurt. Lets you love her in the only way you know how—by destroying her.When you pull back, her mouth is bleeding. She smiles anyway. Small. Sad. Forgiving."I'll wait for you," she whispers. "Next time. The time after that. Until you remember how to love without killing."You laugh again in the memory. Then you raise the knife.The scene cuts.You are back in the present. On your knees. Gasping. Chest heaving. The taste of her blood—old blood, new blood, the same blood—floods your mouth all over again.You retch. Nothing comes up. Only dry heaves. Only the certainty that you have done this before. Many times. Too many times.Footsteps.Slow. Deliberate.Katik is walking toward you again. No coat now. Shirt gone. Bare chest scarred and pale, ribs stark beneath skin like a starved animal. The wounds on his torso are closed, but the scars are livid, raised, silver against white.He stops in front of you. Looks down."You remembered," he says quietly. No mockery left. Only weariness. "Just a piece. But enough."You lift your head. Your vision blurs—tears, maybe, or something worse. "I killed her.""You killed her," he agrees. "Over and over. Every cycle. Every reset. You carve the walls. You laugh. You kiss her. You cut her. You watch her bleed out in your arms. Then the room forgets. You forget. She remembers everything."He crouches slowly until his eyes are level with yours. Black. Endless. And for the first time, you see the pain there. Raw. Endless."She keeps coming back," he says. "Because she loves you. Because she believes one day you'll choose her instead of the knife. Because she believes you are worth saving."He reaches out. This time his fingers do not pass through you. They rest on your shoulder—cold, solid, trembling very slightly."But I'm tired," he whispers. "I'm tired of watching her die for someone who keeps choosing to be the monster."You stare at him. Really look.Beneath the scars. Beneath the blood that has dried into dark lines. Beneath the mocking smile he no longer wears.He is broken.Just like her.Just like you.Your voice cracks when you speak. "What happens now?"Katik's mouth twists—almost a smile, almost a grimace."Now?" he says. "Now you have a choice you never had before."He stands. Offers you his hand."You can keep forgetting. Let the room reset again. Let her come back again. Let her love you again. Let her die again."His black eyes hold yours. Unblinking."Or…"He leans down. Voice drops to a whisper that brushes your ear like a blade."You can remember everything. All of it. Every cut. Every kiss. Every time you made her bleed and called it love."His fingers tighten around yours when you take his hand without thinking."And then," he breathes, "you can decide whether to keep being the killer… or finally let yourself be the one who saves her."The room is still.No blood.No words on the walls.Only the two of you.And the echo of Selene's last kiss still burning on your lips.You stand.Your legs shake.But you stand.And for the first time since waking up in this room…you feel something sharper than guilt.You feel hope.It hurts worse than anything else.But it is yours.
Hope hurts worse than guilt because hope demands you act.You stand there in the clean, ordinary room—walls blank, floor dry, light yellow and indifferent—and feel the weight of it settle into your bones. Selene is gone. Katik is watching you with eyes that no longer mock, only wait. The air tastes different now: not copper, not lilies, just dust and stillness and the faint metallic aftertaste of your own bitten lip.Your fingers flex at your sides. They remember the knife from the memory. They remember the way the handle fit perfectly in your palm, the way the blade sang against plaster, the way Selene's skin parted so easily when you chose to cut instead of hold. Those same fingers just minutes ago were tangled in her silver hair, cradling her face, pulling her mouth to yours like she was oxygen and you had been drowning for centuries.The contradiction is a living thing inside you. It claws.Katik tilts his head. A single lock of black hair falls across his scarred chest. He does not speak. He does not need to. The silence between you is thick with everything he has already said.You take one step toward him.Then another.He does not flinch. He does not retreat. He simply watches, black eyes steady, as though he has waited lifetimes for this exact moment.When you are close enough to feel the cold radiating from his skin, you stop. You look up at him—really look. The scars are not random. They form patterns: spiraling lines, intersecting arcs, faint constellations of old pain. Some are thin and silver, others thick and raised, still faintly pink at the edges as though they never quite healed. His ribs press sharply against his skin with every shallow breath. He is starving—not for food, but for something far more essential."Why do you stay?" you ask. Your voice is hoarse, cracked from screaming you do not remember.Katik exhales through his nose—a sound that might have been a laugh in another life. "Because someone has to remember the parts she refuses to see."He lifts one hand slowly. The motion is careful, almost gentle. His fingers hover near your temple, not touching, just close enough that you feel the chill."She only sees the you that kisses her," he says quietly. "The you that chooses her in the last heartbeat of every cycle. She erases the rest. The laughing you. The carving you. The you that looks at her bleeding body and feels… satisfied."His fingers finally brush your skin—ice against fever. A spark jumps between you. Not pain. Recognition."I see all of you," he continues. "Every version. Every knife stroke. Every tear you pretended not to shed while you watched her fade. I stay because if I leave, there will be no one left to hate you properly. And you need to be hated. You need it to remember you can be more."Your throat closes. You swallow against it. "And if I don't want to be hated anymore?"Katik's mouth curves—just the smallest tilt. Not a smile. Something sadder."Then you fight for the other thing," he says. "The thing she keeps dying for."He lowers his hand. The cold lingers on your temple like a brand.You look past him to the blank wall where the words once screamed. Nothing now. Only smooth plaster. Only silence.But you feel them anyway.YOU ARE THE KILLERThe sentence is inside you now. Not carved on walls. Carved on the soft tissue of your heart.You close your eyes.Another memory surfaces—not violent this time. Quiet. Almost tender.You see yourself sitting on the floor of this same room. The walls are clean. The blood is fresh but not yet dry. Selene is curled in your lap, wings draped over both of you like a blanket. She is weak, fading, but smiling. You are stroking her hair. Slowly. Gently. The way someone strokes the fur of a dying animal they cannot save."I love you," you whisper in the memory. Voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."She lifts a trembling hand. Touches your cheek. Leaves a red smear there."I know," she breathes. "That's why I keep coming back."Her eyes flutter closed.Her hand falls.And in the memory you scream—not rage, not triumph. Grief. Pure, animal grief.The scene dissolves.You open your eyes in the present.Katik is still there. Watching. Waiting.Tears burn tracks down your cheeks. You do not wipe them away."I want to save her," you say. The words feel too big for your mouth. Too honest. Too late.Katik nods once. Slow. Final."Then remember everything," he says. "Every cut. Every kiss. Every time you chose the knife over her heart. Hold it all. Don't look away."He steps closer. Close enough that you feel the faint heat beneath his cold skin—buried deep, but there."Because the next time she comes back," he whispers, "she will look at you with those same dawn eyes… and you will have to decide whether to kiss her again… or finally set her free."Your breath catches.Katik lifts his hand again—this time he presses his palm flat over your heart.You feel it.A pulse.Not yours.Hers.Faint. Distant. Still beating."She's not gone forever," he says. "Not yet. The cycle is cracked. Not broken. Cracked. There's still time."His fingers curl slightly against your shirt."But time is cruel," he adds softly. "And she is running out of it."He steps back.The room brightens—just a fraction.The bulb steadies.And in the corner where Selene vanished, a single silver feather lies on the floorboards. Not torn. Not bloody. Perfect. Glowing faintly with its own inner light.Katik glances at it.Then at you."Pick it up," he says. "Keep it close. When she returns… you'll need something to prove you remember."You bend slowly.Your fingers close around the feather.It is warm.It pulses once—soft, alive—against your palm.And in that pulse you feel her.Selene.Still here.Still waiting.Still believing.You stand.The feather is pressed to your chest now, right over your heart.Katik watches you for a long moment.Then he turns toward the door."I'll be here," he says without looking back. "When you're ready to hate yourself enough to love her properly."He steps through the doorway.The door does not slam this time.It closes softly. Like a promise.You are alone again.But not really.Because the feather is warm against your skin. And somewhere far away—beyond walls, beyond cycles, beyond blood—Selene is still breathing your name.Waiting for you to come find her.Waiting for you to finally choose.
You stand motionless for what feels like hours, though the yellow light from the bulb never flickers, never dims. The silver feather rests against your chest, pressed beneath your palm like a living secret. Its warmth seeps through fabric and skin, steady and faint, the only proof that Selene has not vanished completely. Every few seconds it pulses once—soft, deliberate—like a heartbeat sent from very far away.You lower your hand slowly. The feather stays exactly where you placed it, as though it has chosen to remain there.The room feels larger without her. Emptier. The air is thinner, lacking the sweet-iron scent of lilies and blood that had wrapped around you both like a second skin. You inhale deeply and taste only dust—old wood, old plaster, old regret.Your bare feet move before your mind gives permission. One step. Two. Toward the spot where she dissolved. Where her wings folded one final time and her lips brushed yours in farewell.There is nothing left on the floorboards. No bloodstain. No scattered feathers. No red tear marks. Only clean, pale wood that has never known violence.You kneel anyway.Your fingertips trace the grain of the planks, searching for some invisible scar, some echo of her last breath. Nothing answers. But the feather at your chest pulses again—stronger this time, almost insistent.You press your forehead to the floor."I'm sorry," you whisper.The words fall flat at first. Then they echo back—soft, layered, as though the room itself is repeating them.I'm sorry.I'm sorry.I'm sorry.The echo grows warmer with each repetition. It wraps around you like arms you can no longer feel. Like wings you can no longer see.You close your eyes.Another memory rises—not violent, not cruel. Quiet. Almost sacred.You see yourself lying on this same floor, years ago or cycles ago or eternities ago. The walls are bleeding again, but slowly, almost gently. Selene is beside you, curled on her side, one torn wing draped over your waist like a blanket. Her silver hair spills across your chest. Her breathing is shallow, labored, but her hand is laced with yours.You are not laughing in this memory.You are crying.Silent tears. The kind that burn tracks down your temples and soak into the wood beneath your head. You are holding her so tightly it must hurt her, but she does not pull away. She only turns her face into the crook of your neck and breathes you in."I don't want to forget again," you say in the memory. Voice raw. Broken. "I don't want to wake up and hurt you again."Selene lifts her head just enough to look at you. Her eyes are pale dawn, rimmed red from exhaustion, yet still impossibly gentle."Then don't," she whispers. "Next time… remember this. Remember how it feels to hold me without a knife in your hand. Remember how it feels to cry for me instead of making me bleed."She presses her lips to the corner of your mouth—not a kiss, a promise."Next time," she says, "choose me first."Her wings give one weak flutter. A single feather falls—silver, perfect—and lands on your chest.You reach for it.The memory fades.You open your eyes in the present.The feather is still there—warm, glowing faintly against your shirt.You touch it again. This time it does not pulse. It simply rests.But the warmth spreads.It moves through your ribs, through your veins, through the hollow place where guilt used to live unchallenged. It does not erase the guilt. It sits beside it. Shares space. Makes room.You rise slowly.Your legs feel steadier now.You look around the room—one last time.No words on the walls.No blood on the floor.Only light.Only silence.Only the feather.And the memory of her voice.Next time… choose me first.You walk to the door.It is not locked.It has never been locked.You place your hand on the wood. It is warm—almost body temperature—as though someone has been waiting on the other side.You turn the knob.The door opens onto darkness.Not the suffocating black of before. A softer dark. Starlit. Inviting.You step through.The room behind you does not disappear.It simply waits.Because rooms like this never truly end.They only pause.And somewhere in that starlit dark ahead, Selene is already breathing your name.Waiting.Believing.Still.You take one step forward.Then another.The feather pulses once against your heart—strong, certain, alive.You smile.Small.Sad.Hopeful.And you walk into the dark to find her.
The darkness beyond the door is not empty.It is thick with stars—tiny, cold points of light that do not twinkle but burn steadily, as though they have been watching you for a very long time. You step forward and the threshold feels soft under your foot, like stepping onto new snow that has not yet been walked on. Behind you the room does not vanish; it simply recedes, the yellow light shrinking to a distant square until it is no bigger than a keyhole.You keep walking.The feather against your chest pulses in time with your heartbeat—slow at first, then quicker, as though it is excited, or afraid, or both. Each pulse sends a small wave of warmth spreading outward: through your ribs, down your arms, up your throat. It is not just heat. It is presence. Selene's presence. Faint, fragile, but unmistakable. She is somewhere in this dark. She is waiting.The ground beneath your feet changes without warning. No longer wood. Now it is smooth stone—polished obsidian, black and reflective. You glance down and see your own face staring back at you, distorted by faint ripples, as though the stone is liquid pretending to be solid. Your reflection looks different: eyes wider, mouth set in a line you do not remember choosing, blood still streaking your cheeks even though you know it is no longer there.You look away.Ahead, the starlight begins to gather. Not randomly. Deliberately. It pools in a wide circle on the stone floor, forming a shallow basin of pale silver glow. You approach slowly. The feather pulses faster now—urgent, almost painful.At the center of the light lies a single object.A mirror.Not ornate. Not cracked. Perfectly round, framed in thin black iron that looks like twisted thorns. The surface is not glass; it is liquid silver, perfectly still, reflecting nothing yet.You kneel in front of it.Your reflection appears at once—not the distorted one from the floor, but clear, sharp, cruelly honest. You see the blood you thought was gone: faint streaks across your jaw, drying in thin red lines down your neck. You see your eyes—pupils blown wide, irises flickering with something that is not quite color. You see the shape of your mouth: still swollen from her kiss, still marked by the faint imprint of her teeth.You reach out.Your fingers hover above the surface.The liquid silver trembles.Then it speaks.Not with sound. With memory.The mirror shows you.Not your face anymore. A different scene.You are holding the knife again. This time the blade is pressed to Selene's throat. She is on her knees in front of you, wings spread wide but broken, feathers scattered around her like fallen snow. Her silver hair is matted with sweat and blood. Her hands are bound behind her back with chains made of her own torn feathers.She is looking up at you.No fear in her eyes.Only love.Only forgiveness.You lean down in the memory. Your voice is soft, almost loving."I'm doing this for us," you say. "If I kill you now, the cycle ends. No more pain. No more waiting. We both stop existing. Isn't that mercy?"Selene smiles—small, sad, heartbreaking."It isn't mercy if you do it to escape," she whispers. "It's mercy if you do it to save me from you."Her eyes never leave yours.You hesitate.The knife trembles.Then you drag it across her throat.Blood blooms like a rose opening too fast.She does not scream.She only sighs—a soft, relieved sound—and slumps forward into your arms.You hold her while she dies.Again.The mirror goes still.The silver surface smooths over.You are breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like you have run miles. Tears burn your eyes but do not fall. You stare at your reflection again—now clean, now ordinary, now lying.You reach forward.Your fingers touch the liquid.It ripples.Another memory rises—gentler this time.You and Selene sitting side by side on the floor of the room. Walls clean. No blood. She has her head on your shoulder. You are holding her hand. No knife. No chains. Just fingers laced together.She turns her face into your neck."I love you," she says simply.You answer without thinking."I love you too."The words are quiet. True. For one perfect moment, there is no cycle. No guilt. No knife waiting in the corner.She kisses the pulse at your throat.You kiss her temple.The memory fades slowly, lingering like perfume.The mirror shows only your face again.But now your reflection is crying.Silent tears. The same ones from the other memory.You wipe them away with the back of your hand.The feather pulses once—warm, encouraging.You stand.The mirror remains behind you, reflecting starlight and nothing else.You keep walking into the dark.Ahead, the stars begin to form a path—thin, silver threads connecting one point of light to another.You follow them.Because somewhere at the end of that path, Selene is waiting.And this time, you will not forget.This time, you will choose her first.The feather burns brighter against your heart.You walk faster.The dark parts around you like welcoming arms.And for the first time in forever, the silence feels like hope instead of punishment.
The starlit path narrows as you follow it deeper into the dark.Each step echoes softly on the obsidian floor, a quiet rhythm that matches the pulse of the feather against your heart. The stars above do not move; they watch. Their light is cold but not unkind—steady, patient, as though they have seen countless versions of you walk this same path and still believe you might choose differently this time.The air grows thicker with scent the farther you go. First faint lilies—crushed, sweet, familiar—then iron, then something warmer: skin, breath, the ghost of vanilla left on lips that once kissed yours. It is not imagination. It is memory leaking into reality, bleeding through the cracks the kiss created.You stop.Ahead, the silver threads converge into a single point of brighter light. A small clearing in the endless night. No walls. No ceiling. Only floor and stars and one lone figure standing in the center.Selene.She is not whole yet. Not solid. She flickers like a flame caught in wind—there one heartbeat, translucent the next. Her wings are faint outlines of gold and white, torn edges still bleeding light instead of blood. Her dress clings in ghostly shreds, silver hair floating around her as though underwater. She has not seen you yet. Her head is bowed, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders curved inward like someone bracing for the next blow.You take one step closer.She lifts her head.Her eyes find yours.Even in this half-state, those pale dawn eyes are unmistakable—wide, shimmering, filled with something so raw it steals your breath."You came," she whispers.The sound of her voice is fragile, thread-thin, but it reaches you perfectly. It wraps around your heart like the feather never left.You walk the last few steps until only arm's length separates you.She reaches out first—slow, trembling. Her fingers are translucent; you can see the stars through them. Yet when they brush your cheek, they are real. Cool. Alive. A tear—clear this time, no longer red—escapes her eye and traces a shining path down her face."I thought… I thought the kiss would end it," she says. Voice breaking on every word. "I thought you would let me go. Let us both go."You shake your head. Your own voice is rough, thick with everything you have remembered."I couldn't," you say. "I still can't."Her hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where her kiss still lingers. She looks at you like she is seeing you for the first time—truly seeing—and the wonder in her eyes undoes you."You remembered," she breathes. "Not just the bad parts. The good ones too."You nod. Tears burn behind your eyes again. "I remembered holding you without hurting you. I remembered crying for you. I remembered loving you… before I ruined it."Selene's form flickers brighter for a moment—almost solid—then fades again. She winces, a small sound of pain escaping her."The cycle is cracked," she says. "But it isn't broken yet. Every time I come back… it costs more. I'm slipping. Soon I won't be able to return at all."Panic spikes through you—sharp, cold."No," you say. The word comes out desperate. "No, you can't—"She presses her fingers to your lips."Shh," she whispers. "I'm not gone yet. I'm here. Right now. Because you chose to follow. Because you chose to remember."Her other hand finds yours. Laces your fingers together. Even translucent, her grip is firm. Warm. Real."Look at me," she says softly.You do.Her eyes hold yours—steady, unafraid, full of that same ancient gentleness that has survived every cycle, every knife, every betrayal."I have loved you through every version of you," she says. "The one who laughed. The one who carved. The one who cried. The one who kissed me like I was the only thing that ever mattered."She steps closer. Her body brushes yours—half-there, half-gone—and yet you feel every inch of contact like fire."I'm not asking you to be perfect," she whispers. "I'm asking you to be mine. Just once. Without the knife. Without the guilt. Just you… and me."Her free hand rises to your face again. Cups your cheek. Her thumb brushes away a tear you didn't realize had fallen."Will you kiss me again?" she asks. Voice so soft it is almost lost in the starlight. "Not to end us. But to begin something new."Your heart slams against your ribs—once, twice, so hard you are sure she can feel it through whatever fragile barrier still separates you.You do not answer with words.You answer with movement.You lean in.She meets you halfway.This kiss is different from the first.The first was desperation—cycle-breaking, rule-shattering, end-of-everything hunger.This one is quiet. Slow. Reverent.Her lips are cool at first, then warm, then burning. You taste starlight on her tongue. You taste forgiveness. You taste home.Her arms slide around your neck. Yours wrap around her waist—careful, gentle, as though she might dissolve if you hold too tight. But she doesn't. She solidifies against you—wings taking shape again, feathers filling in, dress mending itself thread by thread.The kiss deepens.Not frantic. Not cruel.Tender.A promise.When you finally pull back—just enough to breathe—her forehead rests against yours. Her eyes are closed. Tears—clear, shining—slip down her cheeks and fall onto your collarbone like tiny stars."You chose me," she whispers.You brush her hair back from her face. Your voice is rough, thick with emotion."I'm choosing you now," you say. "And every time after this."She opens her eyes.They are brighter now—solid dawn blue, no cracks, no fading.She smiles—small, real, radiant."Then stay with me," she says. "Through whatever comes next. Through whatever memories still want to hurt us. Through everything."You nod.The feather at your chest flares once—bright, warm, victorious—and then settles into steady glow.The stars above brighten.The obsidian floor beneath you begins to soften, turning to something warmer, something alive.And in the distance—very faint at first—you hear footsteps.Not Katik's.Not yours. Hers. Selene's.Coming closer.Coming home.You take her hand.She squeezes back.And together, you step forward into whatever waits beyond the stars.
The starlit path widens as you walk forward together, hands still laced, fingers so tightly entwined it feels impossible to ever let go again. Selene's form is almost solid now—wings filling out feather by feather, dress knitting itself back together in silver threads that shimmer like moonlight on water. Each step she takes leaves a faint glow on the obsidian floor, small luminous footprints that fade slowly behind her like dying stars.You glance sideways at her profile.
She is beautiful in a way that hurts—sharp cheekbones, soft mouth still swollen from your kiss, pale dawn eyes reflecting every point of starlight above. Her silver hair floats gently around her shoulders, no longer matted with blood, no longer heavy with grief. She looks… free. For the first time in all the memories you have reclaimed, she looks free.She catches you staring.A small, shy smile curves her lips."You're looking at me like you've never seen me before," she says softly."I haven't," you answer. "Not like this. Not without the knife between us."Her smile falters—just a fraction—then returns, softer, sadder, more radiant."Then keep looking," she whispers. "Keep seeing me. That's all I've ever wanted."You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back. The feather at your chest pulses in perfect rhythm with both your heartbeats—two hearts now, beating as one.The path begins to slope upward. The stars grow brighter, closer, until it feels like you could reach out and touch them. The air warms. Scents shift again—lilies giving way to something fresher, cleaner: rain on stone, pine needles after storm, the faint sweet warmth of sunlit skin.Selene stops.You stop with her.Ahead, the path ends at a low stone archway. No door. No gate. Just an open frame carved from the same obsidian, etched with faint silver lines that form no words—only shapes. Spirals. Wings. Interlocking hands. A story told without language.Beyond the archway: light.Not yellow bulb-light. Not cold starlight. Warm golden light, soft as afternoon sun through leaves. It spills toward you like invitation.Selene turns to face you fully.Her free hand rises to your cheek. Her touch is no longer cold. It is warm. Alive. Human."This is the edge," she says quietly. "Beyond this… the cycle cannot follow. Beyond this… we either begin again—together—or we end forever."You feel the weight of her words settle in your chest like stones and feathers at once—heavy, yet light enough to carry."What happens if we cross?" you ask.She looks past the archway, eyes shimmering."We remember everything," she says. "Every cycle. Every death. Every kiss. Every time I bled for you. Every time you cried for me. No more forgetting. No more resetting. Just… us. As we are. Broken. Whole. Real."Her thumb traces the line of your jaw."And if we stay here?" you ask.She smiles—small, brave, heartbreaking."Then the room pulls us back. The walls bleed again. The words return. You forget. I remember. And we dance the same dance until there is nothing left of either of us."Silence stretches between you—soft, fragile, full of everything unsaid.You lift your free hand. Cup the side of her face. Feel the warmth of her skin, the faint tremor beneath it, the pulse at her temple that matches your own."I don't want to forget you again," you say. Voice low. Steady. Sure.Selene's eyes fill with tears—clear, shining, no longer red. They spill over and trace silver paths down her cheeks."Then don't," she whispers.You lean in.She meets you.This kiss is not desperate. Not reverent. It is certain.Lips press. Tongues touch. Breaths mingle. Hands slide into hair, down backs, pulling closer until there is no space left for doubt, for guilt, for knives.The feather flares against your chest—bright, hot, victorious—and then dissolves into warmth that spreads through every vein, every nerve, every scar you carry inside.You feel it.The cycle cracking wider.Not shattering yet.But cracking.Enough.Selene pulls back just enough to breathe. Her forehead rests against yours."Together?" she asks."Together," you answer.Hand in hand, you step forward.Through the archway.Into the golden light.The stars behind you fade.The darkness fades.And what waits beyond is not an ending.It is a beginning.Warm light envelops you both.Selene's wings spread wide—no longer torn, no longer bleeding—golden feathers catching the glow like sunrise.She turns to you.Smiles.Real.Whole.Yours.And in that moment—free of rooms, free of knives, free of cycles—you finally understand what love feels like when it is not laced with pain.It feels like flying.It feels like home.It feels like her. Forever.