The breaking point comes quietly.
No storm. No collapse. Just a question Mira has avoided for too long.
"If I stay," Hiyoon says, "I will replace what you lost. Fully."
"And if you go?"
"You will remember everything," he says. "Except me."
The bridge is empty that night. No witnesses. No passing footsteps.
Mira looks at him—at the man who exists because she once chose safety over uncertainty, and now asks her to choose again.
"You were never meant to survive like this," she says.
Hiyoon smiles, gentle and complete. "Neither were you."
Tears blur her vision.
"I choose to remember," she says.
The words settle.
Hiyoon nods. Relief, not sadness, softening his face.
"Then this time," he says, "let me go properly."
She holds him as he fades—not abruptly, not painfully, but like a breath released after being held too long.
When he's gone, the bridge feels like what it always was.
A place to pass through.