The air in Emma’s penthouse still carried the scent of burned ozone, a quiet echo of what had been undone. Morning filtered in, casting golden light over the marble floor, soft and strangely reverent—as if the world itself were holding its breath.

She stood at the edge of the balcony, robe drawn tight against her body, the wind brushing her cheek like the fingers of an old friend. Jack had not spoken much since the Spiral collapsed. Neither had she. There were no words yet for what they ...