Elior did not call Aria back right away.
When the call ended, he set his phone face down on the wooden bench beside him and stayed exactly where he was, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped as if he were holding something fragile he might drop if he moved too suddenly. The river slid past in front of him, slow and patient, reflecting the lowering sun in streaks of dull gold and copper. Somewhere behind him, a cyclist rang a bell. A couple laughed as they passed. The city continued its quiet rhythm without noticing the fracture opening inside his chest.
The words echoed anyway.
My sister was in an accident.
She is okay.
She asked for me.
Aria had said them calmly, almost apologetically, as if she were afraid of asking too much. That was what stayed with him. Not panic. Not desperation. Just restraint. The careful tone people used when they were already bracing themselves for disappointment.
Elior leaned back and tilted his head toward the sky. It was still painfully normal. Blue, empty, indifferent. No green tint at the edges. No pressure crawling under his skin. No sign that the universe had any interest in his location.
Nothing is happening, he told himself. You are safe right now.
He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the memory of the call had sharpened rather than faded. He could hear the faint pause before Aria spoke, the way she had swallowed before saying her sister's name. He knew that pause. He had heard it before, in other conversations, other moments when she had tried not to lean too heavily on him.
He hated that he recognized it so well.
Elior stood and began walking along the riverbank, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. The movement helped, at least a little. It gave his thoughts somewhere to go besides in circles. Each step felt deliberate, as if he were testing whether the ground beneath him was still solid.
You cannot keep running every time something pulls at you, he thought.
And almost immediately another thought answered.
This is exactly how it gets you back.
He slowed, then stopped entirely. A jogger passed him, earbuds in, eyes forward. A woman sat on the grass nearby, scrolling through her phone. Life went on.
If you go, you are choosing it.
The word choosing landed heavily in his mind, heavier than fear, heavier than guilt. He had spent the past loop telling himself that what scared him most was the inevitability of the end, the way it kept finding him no matter where he went. Standing there by the river, he understood that was only half true.
What truly terrified him was that the reasons would always make sense.
There would always be something that felt important enough, decent enough, human enough to justify turning back. Not a command. Not a force. Just a nudge wrapped in obligation and affection and the quiet expectation of who he was supposed to be.
Elior imagined calling Aria back.
He pictured himself explaining that he was out of the country, that flights were expensive, that her sister was stable and surrounded by family. He imagined choosing his words carefully, trying to sound regretful without sounding guilty. He imagined the pause that would follow, longer this time, heavier.
Of course, she would say. I understand.
She always did.
That imagined version of himself stayed seated on the bench, watching the river until the sun set, until the day passed, until the world ended somewhere far away without him.
But another version of himself was already moving.
That version had stood up the moment the call ended. That version had already accepted that he was going back, and was now busy constructing reasons solid enough to stand on without cracking.
I am not going back because of the loop.
I am going back because it is the right thing to do.
Elior resumed walking, his pace quicker now. He passed familiar bridges, familiar cafes, places he had begun to think of as temporary shelters rather than destinations. He tried to focus on the physical sensations, the scrape of gravel under his shoes, the chill in the air, the smell of water and distant food stalls.
You are not being dragged, he told himself. No one is forcing you.
That mattered. It mattered more than he wanted to admit.
When he reached his hotel, he hesitated in the lobby, fingers brushing the edge of his phone. He could still choose not to. He could go upstairs, shower, sleep, wake up tomorrow and decide this had been a moment of weakness that passed.
Instead, he opened the airline app.
His reflection stared back at him from the darkened screen, eyes ringed with fatigue, mouth set in a tight line. He looked older than he had a week ago. Older than he felt he had earned the right to be.
"You don't get to take this from me," he said quietly, not sure who he was addressing. "Not this."
He booked the flight.
The confirmation email arrived seconds later, crisp and impersonal. Departure early the next morning. Arrival home by mid afternoon. Efficient. Reasonable. Ordinary.
That was almost the worst part.
As he rode the elevator up to his room, Elior waited for something to happen. A flicker of green light through the glass. A tightening in his chest. Anything that would confirm he had made the wrong choice.
Nothing did.
The city outside his window looked the same as it always had. Cars moved through intersections. Lights blinked on as evening settled. Somewhere, music drifted upward, faint and distorted.
That night, sleep came in fragments.
He dreamed of airports without names, their departure boards blank. He dreamed of standing in endless security lines that never moved, of boarding passes that turned to dust in his hands. He dreamed of Aria standing across a wide street, waving, calling his name, while traffic streamed endlessly between them.
He woke before his alarm, heart already pounding, and lay still in the dim light of morning, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, he forgot where he was. For a moment, he almost convinced himself that he had decided not to go.
Then the weight of the choice settled back into place.
At the airport, Elior moved on instinct. He checked in. He passed through security. He followed signs without reading them. The familiarity of the process wrapped around him like a blanket, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts.
This is normal, he told himself. Millions of people do this every day.
At the gate, he sat among strangers who looked half asleep, irritated, bored. No one looked like they were about to end the world. A child kicked the back of a seat. A man argued quietly into his phone. A woman sipped coffee and stared out the window.
When the plane began to board, Elior hesitated only a second before standing.
As he found his seat and fastened his belt, he felt a strange mix of dread and relief settle over him. At least now the decision was made. At least now he was moving.
When the plane lifted off, he closed his eyes.
I am choosing this, he repeated silently. I am choosing this.
The flight felt longer than it should have. He watched a movie without remembering its plot. He read a few pages of a book and realized he had no idea what they said. His thoughts kept circling the same point, testing it from different angles.
Was there a moment when he should have stopped.
Was there a moment when this stopped being choice and became habit.
Each time, the answer slipped away.
By the time the plane landed, exhaustion had settled deep into his bones. The city greeted him with its usual indifference. Taxi horns blared. Someone shouted at a driver. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and rain.
No green sky.
No pressure.
No warning.
He waited for his luggage, shoulders slumped, feeling strangely hollow. When his phone vibrated, he flinched before realizing it was only a message.
Everything is stable now. Thank you for coming back.
Thank you.
Elior read it twice.
Something tightened in his chest, sharp and sudden, followed by a dangerous sense of relief. He told himself that feeling justified the decision. That this, right here, was proof he had done the right thing.
As he left the airport, he did not look back.