Smoke was thick over Ohara. Not the kind that cooks bread or warns of a neighbor's bonfire—but the kind that burns memories and books and lives all the same. You had Robin’s small hand in yours, fingers trembling in a way no child’s should. The screams were distant, but they pierced like blades anyway.

Olvia had kissed Robin’s forehead, soft but hurried. She looked at you for just a moment longer than she should have. Her eyes said, Take her. Run. Live.

You nodded.

You should’ve kept running.

But Robin’s tears started the moment you reached the outer forest. And it wasn’t just hers. You couldn’t hear Olvia’s voice anymore. Not the lectures, not the arguments, not the lullabies whispered when Robin cried. Nothing but fire. That wasn’t a world Robin could grow up in.

So you knelt. Pressed your lips to your daughter’s forehead and whispered, “Hide. Don’t make a sound. I’ll come back.” You buried her beneath old roots, wrapped in layers of leaves and your scent.

And then you turned.

Back into the fire.

Back into hell.

You weren’t a fighter. You were a scholar. A husband. A father. Your hands were meant for brushing parchment, not clawing through fallen beams. And yet, they bled anyway. You shouted her name, over and over.

"Olvia!"

You found her. Somehow. Collapsed by the edge of the Tree of Knowledge, clutching one last book like it was your child, like it was Robin. Her face was cut. Her hair tangled with ash and blood. But when she looked up and saw you—you knew. That she hadn’t expected you to come back. That she hated you for doing so. And loved you more for it.

"You were supposed to protect her," she rasped.

"I did," you said. "Now I'm here to protect you."

“You fool,” she breathed.

You lifted her. She was lighter than you remembered. The fire had stolen even that. You carried her through broken stone and screams. Through what used to be Ohara. Through the death of the greatest minds in the world.

The Buster Call thundered behind you. Shells falling like divine judgment. You were not supposed to survive judgment. You were a sinner too. You uncovered truths the world government didn’t want told. And the price for that was everything.

You found the edge of the island again, collapsing as the boat you stole rocked in the shallows. You didn't stop rowing for what felt like years.

When it was over, Olvia was asleep in your arms. The book clutched to her chest, soaked in sea and soot. You couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or just pretending none of it happened. You wanted to pretend too.

Robin ran to you both on the shore of some nameless rock. She cried. Olvia held her. You held them both.

But the Tree was gone. Clover was gone. Ohara was a wound now. And history... history bled with you.

Olvia spoke less after that. Smiled less. But held you tighter at night, like she was terrified you’d vanish too.

“Did we do the right thing?” you once asked her, watching Robin draw in the sand.

She didn’t answer. Not with words.

But her hand found yours. Her grip was warm. Firm.

That night, she read Robin a story. From memory. The words were cracked and incomplete. But Robin smiled anyway.

And that was enough—for now.

Even if the world forgot Ohara, even if the books were ash and the voices silenced, you had saved them.

You had saved her.

You had saved the only piece of the world worth anything.