He wandered the half-worlds.
Not as a ghost. Not as a god.
Just as someone who remembered too much.
Names passed by him like drifting paper — names of others, names of places, even the name of time itself.
But none stuck to him.
He tried once.
He stood in front of a glass lake and said, "I am..."
The surface didn't ripple.
The world didn't answer.
The silence felt… correct.
So he kept walking.
Once, a fading star asked him,
"Why do you keep collecting their stories if you never write your own?"
He didn't reply.
Instead, he followed another thread — this one silver and slow, tied to a broken clock tower at the edge of a dream.
It was there he met the girl with no finale again.
She was writing something in the dust with her finger:
a sentence that changed each time he blinked.
"They never remember me."
"Maybe that's safer."
"What if I'm the wrong version?"
"What if this version is better?"
He sat beside her.
Neither spoke.
He didn't ask for her name. She didn't ask for his.
They didn't need to.
Later, much later, a tiny system offered him a name.
It blinked into his palm like a flicker of approval:
"Threadwriter_0.0.1"
He stared at it, then closed his hand.
Not yet.
He wasn't finished searching.
He may find it soon —
In the echo of someone else's name.
In a forgotten version of himself.
In the silence between two collapsing timelines.
But for now, he walks.
Unnamed.
Unclaimed.
Unwritten.
And the world watches him quietly, hoping he chooses wisely.