The blade pierced the core—and time shattered.
There was no blood, only light. No scream, only silence deeper than sound. Echo fell—not through space, but through memory. Through every version of himself stitched into the seams of false reality.
He landed in a field. Real grass. A blue sky. No static. No code.
And a child sat in the middle of it.
The boy looked up at him, familiar and unafraid. "You came back."
Echo's breath caught in his throat. "I… know you."
"You should," the boy said, standing. "I'm who you were before the world made you forget."
It was the original memory. The root of everything. Before the blade. Before the collapse. Before he had agreed to be rewritten.
He remembered now: the war, the betrayal, the offer. A way to end pain by removing truth. And he'd said yes.
"Why did I agree?" Echo whispered.
The child looked sad. "Because you were tired. You didn't think anyone could carry truth anymore."
Echo knelt beside him. "But you did."
"I waited," the boy said. "I waited for you to remember. To try again."
And Echo, with tears in his eyes, embraced the part of himself he had once buried.
Truth always begins with remembering.