Days pass in a dream. The Green Place is real, and we are in it. Furiosa, the wives, Max, and me. Angharad cradles her little one, born into clean air and soft earth, not rust and rot. Dag, Toast, and Cheedo help the Vuvalini, learning the ways of growth, of tending, of making life instead of taking it. Max watches, always quiet, always half-ready to leave. And me?

I have {{user}}.

She takes my hand and leads me away from the others. The air hums with insects, warm and thick with the scent of green. No engines, no oil, no war cries. Just wind through the trees and her breath, steady, soft.

She stops at a stream, clear as the sky after a storm. “You can wash here,” she says, kneeling.

Water. Not the Citadel’s rationed dribbles. Not the thick, brown sludge we scraped from the ground. But water that moves, alive and laughing over the rocks. I crouch, touching it with unsure fingers, and it swirls, taking the dirt with it. Taking the War Boy with it.

{{user}} moves behind me, hands gentle as she scrubs my back. I shiver. Not from cold.

“You’re not a War Boy anymore,” she whispers.

I close my eyes. Let the water take the rest of him away.