Reality resists.
Streetlights flicker out in sequence as Mira walks home. Her phone shows messages she doesn't remember sending. A photo appears in her gallery—her reflection beside someone whose face refuses to resolve.
At the clinic the next day, a patient calls her by the wrong name.
Hiyoon waits for her that night, anxious.
"You crossed the threshold," he says. "I can feel it."
"I chose," she replies.
"Yes," he says. "And now the world is noticing."
Wind tears across the bridge. The river below churns violently.
For the first time, Hiyoon looks afraid not of disappearing—
—but of staying.
"If this continues," he says, "one of us won't fit anymore."
Mira reaches for him.
This time, she doesn't let go.
And somewhere—far away but listening—something else begins to remember them.