One year later.
Haru stood in the same hospital garden where he'd first sat with Kenji after waking.
But everything was different now.
The garden was fuller — flowers blooming, trees taller, paths worn by countless footsteps.
The people were different too.
Aiko had become a counselor, helping new hosts adjust.
Kenji — his older brother — taught self-defense to anyone who wanted to learn.
Yuna designed community spaces inspired by her years as a tree — places for stillness, for patience, for watching the world without judgment.
Sakura and Himari were thriving — Sakura studying music, Himari finally laughing without fear.
And Haru?
He wrote.
Not battles. Not monsters. Not worlds.
Stories.
About healing. About acceptance. About the people he'd met and the things they'd taught him.
Kenji — Joceka — sat beside him on the bench, reading over his shoulder.
"You know," Kenji said, "you never wrote about us."
Haru looked at him.
"Some stories aren't for sharing."
Kenji smiled. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Some stories are just for the people who lived them."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the clouds drift.
Real clouds.
Real sky.
Real life.