Three Months Later
The coffee shop smells like burnt beans and old paper.
Arden sits by the window. Laptop open. Blank page staring back. Cursor blinking. Mocking.
She doesn't remember learning to write. Doesn't remember her first story. Her first published novel. Just knows that her fingers remember the keyboard. That words come when she stops thinking.
That's how she lives now. In the present. No past. No context. Just this moment. Then the next.
The barista calls her name. She stands. Walks to the counter.
"Arden, right?" The barista smiles. Young. Maybe twenty. Nose ring. "Same as yesterday. Black coffee. No sugar."
"Yeah." Arden takes the cup. Warm ceramic. Real. Solid. "Thanks."
"You're a writer?" The barista nods at the laptop. "I see you here every day. Always typing."
"Trying to be." Arden returns to her seat.
She doesn't know if she's a writer. Doesn't remember being one. But Kael found papers in her apartment. Manuscripts. Three published novels. Horror novels.
She tried reading them. Made it through ten pages of the first one. Couldn't continue. Too familiar. Too much like the Game.
So now she writes different things. Small things. A woman buying groceries. A child finding a lost dog. A couple having breakfast. Normal things. Quiet things. Things that don't end in death.
The words come slowly. But they come.
Her phone buzzes. Text from Kael.
Appointment at 2. Don't forget.
She types back. I won't.
But she might. She forgets everything now. Keeps lists. Reminders. Photos of people with names written underneath. Her new memory system.
There's a photo of Kael on her phone. Dark hair. Sharp features. Caption underneath: "Kael. Friend. Survived Game together. Lives at 47 Beacon St. Trust him."
She does trust him. Not because the caption says to. Because something deeper remembers. Something the Codebook couldn't erase.
She saves her document. Closes the laptop. Drinks her coffee in three long swallows. Burns her tongue. Doesn't care.
Outside, Boston is alive. People walking. Living. Normal lives.
She's one of them now. Mostly.
Except she still counts sometimes. Not seconds. Just counts. Numbers appear in her head without permission. Forty-seven steps to the subway. Forty-seven birds on the power line. Forty-seven people waiting at the crosswalk.
Everything in forty-sevens.
Kael says it's trauma. A leftover pattern. Says it'll fade.
But Arden knows better. Some things don't fade. They just become part of you.
She walks to the clinic. Twenty minutes. Therapist appointment. Dr. Sarah Chen. The photo on her phone shows a kind face. Asian woman. Early forties. Caption: "Therapist. Knows about Game. Safe to talk to."
The clinic is small. Clean. Smells like lavender and lies.
"Arden." Dr. Chen opens the door herself. No receptionist. No waiting room full of broken people. Just her. Just privacy. "Come in."
The office is warm. Soft lighting. Two chairs. No couch. No cliché therapy couch.
Arden sits. Dr. Chen sits across from her. Notepad in lap. Never writes anything. Just holds it.
"How are you?" Dr. Chen asks.
"Fine." Arden's default answer. To everything. "Good. Normal."
"Are you?"
Silence.
"I don't know what normal is," Arden says finally. "I don't remember normal. Just know what I have now. And now is. Manageable."
"Manageable." Dr. Chen nods. "Better than last week's 'tolerable.' Progress."
"Is it?"
"What do you think?"
Arden hates when she does this. Reflects questions back. Makes her answer herself.
"I think I'm a stranger living in someone else's life," Arden says. "I think I have an apartment full of things I don't remember buying. A laptop full of stories I don't remember writing. A name that feels like it belongs to someone dead."
"But you're not dead."
"No." Arden looks out the window. "But the person I was is. The Entity took her. Took everything before the Game. Now I'm just. Whoever's left."
"And who is that?"
"Someone who counts." Arden's hands are fists. "Someone who writes. Someone who trusts a stranger because a photo says to. Someone who wakes up every morning and has to relearn who she is. Someone who's forgiven herself for things she can't even remember doing."
Dr. Chen leans forward. "That last part. Say it again."
"I've forgiven myself for things I can't remember."
"How does that feel?"
Arden thinks. Really thinks.
"Empty," she says. "Hollow. Like I cheated. Like I took the easy way out."
"Is forgetting easy?"
"No." The word comes fast. Hard. "It's torture. Every day. Not knowing. Not remembering. Having to trust what people tell me about myself. Having to believe I was worth saving when I don't remember being worth anything."
"But you believe it."
"I have to." Arden meets her eyes. "Because Kael says so. Because he died forty-seven times across timelines just to help me. Because Amara painted my death and warned me anyway. Because my sister sacrificed herself. Because even the Entity thought I was dangerous enough to kill repeatedly."
"So you're worth saving because other people say so."
"Yes."
"What about what you say?"
Arden has no answer.
Dr. Chen lets the silence sit. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
"Next week," Dr. Chen says finally, "I want you to write something. Not for anyone else. Not for publication. Just for you. Write down what makes you worth saving. Not what others have said. What you believe. Can you do that?"
"I don't know."
"Try."
The session ends. Arden walks back into sunlight. The world hasn't changed. Still busy. Still loud. Still indifferent.
Her phone buzzes. Text from a number saved as "Amara - Painter - Station 2 - Friend."
Coffee tomorrow? Need to talk.
Arden types back. Sure. Where?
That place you like. With the burnt beans.
Arden smiles. Small. Real.
She walks. No destination. Just walking. Boston stretches around her. Streets she doesn't remember learning. Buildings that are familiar and foreign simultaneously.
She passes a bookstore. Stops. Goes inside.
The horror section is in the back. She finds it without thinking. Muscle memory leading.
Three books with her name on the spine. Arden Vale. Author photo on the back. Her face. Younger. Smiling. Confident.
A stranger's face.
She picks up the first one. "Castle of Blood." Reads the back cover.
A Gothic nightmare where every death is a betrayal and every betrayal is a death.
She opens to a random page. Reads.
The prose is good. Tight. Brutal. She recognizes the style. The rhythm. The way sentences break. The way horror sneaks in through small details.
This person knew how to write.
This person was her.
Arden buys all three books. The cashier recognizes the author photo.
"Oh my god. You're Arden Vale." Young. Excited. "I love your books. Are you working on a fourth?"
"Maybe." Arden takes the bag. "Still figuring it out."
"Well, I hope you do. Your books are incredible. The way you write fear. Like you've lived it."
"Yeah." Arden's throat is tight. "I guess I have."
She walks home. Apartment on the fifth floor. 5C. Same building. Same apartment. Different person living there.
Kael is waiting outside her door. Leaning against the wall. Two coffees in his hands.
"You forgot the appointment," he says. No judgment. Just fact.
"Shit." Arden unlocks the door. "I'm sorry. I went to therapy. Then the bookstore. Then—"
"It's fine." He hands her a coffee. "We can reschedule. I just wanted to check on you."
They go inside. Arden's apartment is sparse. Clean. Nothing personal. No photos on the walls. No decorations. Just furniture and books and a laptop.
A blank slate.
She's been here three months and still hasn't made it feel like home.
Kael sits on the red couch. The one thing she kept. The one thing that felt right.
"I bought my books," Arden says. Pulling them from the bag. "The horror ones. Thought I should read them. Try to remember."
"And?"
"And they're good. Really good. But they're not mine. They're hers. The person I was."
Kael sips his coffee. "You know they're the same person, right? You and her. Just different points on the same line."
"Are they?" Arden sits beside him. "She had a childhood. Parents. A sister. I have nothing. Just the Game. Just horror. How are we the same?"
"Because you're both here. Both trying. Both refusing to give up." He sets down his coffee. "The Arden who wrote those books. She survived her childhood. Her trauma. Her guilt. Long enough to write it down. To make something from it. You survived the Game. Lost everything. And you're still here. Still trying. That's the same person. Different test. Same strength."
Arden wants to believe him.
"I saw the bus stop today," she says. Quiet. "Walking home. It was just there. On a corner. Number 000. Waiting."
Kael goes still. "Did you go near it?"
"No. I walked on the other side of the street. Didn't look at it directly. But I knew it was there. Could feel it watching."
"It's always there." Kael's voice is careful. Controlled. "For people like us. People who've survived. It's always waiting. Offering another ride. Another chance. Another Game."
"Why?"
"Because the Entity isn't dead. Just dormant. Sleeping. And it needs players to wake up. Needs fear to feed on. Needs people like you who might win. Might break it." He looks at her. "But you don't have to go back. You won. You're free."
"Am I?" Arden stares at her hands. "I don't feel free. I feel erased. Like I traded one prison for another."
"Then build something new." Kael touches her hand. Warm. Real. "You don't need the old memories to be a person. You don't need to remember your childhood to exist. You just need this. Right now. This moment. This choice."
"What choice?"
"To live. Actually live. Not just survive. Not just exist. But live."
Arden looks at him. This stranger who's not a stranger. This person who knows her better than she knows herself.
"How?" she asks.
"One day at a time. One moment. One choice." He squeezes her hand. "Today you chose therapy. Tomorrow you choose coffee with Amara. Next week you choose to write something true. And eventually, all those choices become a life. Your life. Not the one you lost. The one you're building."
"And if I fail?"
"Then you try again." He smiles. Small. Sad. "That's all anyone does. Try. Fail. Try again. You just do it with amnesia and trauma and a magic notebook."
Arden laughs. Actual laugh. First real one in weeks.
"When you put it that way."
"It's the only way to put it." Kael stands. "I should go. Let you rest. But I'm here. If you need anything. If the bus comes back. If the memories are too heavy. I'm here."
"I know." She walks him to the door. "Thank you. For everything. For not giving up on me. Even when I was a stranger."
"You were never a stranger." He touches her face. Brief. Gentle. "You were always Arden. Always the person who counts. Who hesitates. Who saves people anyway. That doesn't change. Memories or not."
He leaves.
Arden stands in the empty apartment. Alone. Not lonely. Just alone.
She opens her laptop. New document. Blank page.
Dr. Chen's assignment. Write what makes you worth saving.
She stares at the cursor. Blinking. Waiting.
Then she types.
I am worth saving because I survived.
Not because I was strong. Not because I was brave. Not because I was good.
But because I refused to stop. Even when stopping was easier. Even when counting was safer. Even when watching was less painful than acting.
I survived because I chose to. Every day. Every moment. Every impossible choice.
I lost everything. Memories. Identity. Past. But I kept the only thing that matters.
I kept trying.
And that's enough.
That has to be enough.
She saves the document. Closes the laptop.
Outside her window, the city moves. People living. Dying. Trying. Failing. Getting up again.
She's one of them now.
Just another person trying to survive in a world that doesn't care if she does.
But she cares.
And that's the difference.
She stands. Goes to the window. Looks out at Boston. At her city. At the life she's building from nothing.
Somewhere out there, a bus stop waits. Number 000. Always waiting.
But Arden doesn't count the distance to it. Doesn't count the steps. Doesn't count anything.
For the first time in her life. In her new life. In whatever this is.
She just exists. In zero seconds. In this moment. In now.
And it's enough.