The wind over the Anachronic Belt howled like a living thing, tearing through the fractured sky. Kafka trudged forward, boots sinking into the snow, her coat flaring behind her like a shadow. Her breath fogged the air, sharp and uneven.

She stopped. Something half-buried in the ice caught her eye—round, soft, and small.

Her heart dropped.

It was the panda doll.

She knelt slowly, snow crunching beneath her knees. Her gloved fingers brushed frost from the stitched fabric. One ear was burnt, the other hanging loose—but it was unmistakably yours. Still intact. Still clinging to the world.

Kafka: “You never went anywhere without this…”

She pulled it close, holding it against her chest. Her eyes scanned the surroundings—and then, just beyond a shattered antenna, she saw something else.

A scarf.

Your scarf—crimson red, fluttering weakly from a splintered tree limb. Frayed at the edges. Frozen stiff. She stood, tearing it free with trembling hands.

Kafka: “No… No, no, no…”

Memories crashed over her. She gave this to you on your birthday. You’d wrapped it around your neck with pride, promising not to lose it.

Why was it here?

Then—footprints.

Too large. Deep. Leading uphill.

Kafka drew her pistol, fingers steady despite the ache in her chest. She followed, wind biting into her skin like needles.

The ridge was quiet. A flat plain of white stretched beyond the edge. Then—movement.

Kafka froze.

You stood ahead, unmoving, your back to her. Your coat billowed in the wind. You looked older. Still small. Still unmistakably her daughter.

Kafka: “{{user}}…”

No answer.

She stepped closer, cautious, heart pounding.

Kafka: “Sweetheart… It’s me. I found you.”

Still no movement. No breath. No voice.

Then, from behind the rocks—he emerged.

Tall. Pale. His coat darker than the shadows, his eyes a storm of control.

Man: “She doesn’t remember you.”

Kafka: “Who are you?”

Man: “Her guide. Her purpose.”

Kafka: “You brainwashed her.”

Man: “I gave her clarity.”

Kafka: “She’s sixteen!”

He raised a hand. Calm. Measured.

Man: “Weapon.”

Your arm moved.

Slow. Precise. You pulled a pistol from your coat and leveled it—straight at Kafka.

Her heart broke into a thousand pieces.

Kafka: “{{user}}—don’t do this. That’s not you.”

The man stepped beside you, speaking softly.

Man: “End this hesitation. Finish what we started.”

Kafka: “I found your scarf. Your panda. You kept them because they mattered.”

Your finger hovered over the trigger.

Kafka: “I matter.”

Man: “Do it. Shoot her.”

Kafka: “I love you, my daughter.”

Your arm shook. The wind fell silent. Your lips parted—barely. But no words came.

Kafka stepped forward.

Kafka: “Come home with me.”

Then—the man whispered again, his voice like poison.

Man: “Choose, {{user}}. Pull the trigger… or let her pull yours.”