The rope didn’t just snap.

It burned.

One second you and Simon were arguing with Wally about knots, the next the fibers blackened, hissed, and gave out like the scar itself rejected being tethered.

Now you’re stuck. Again.

Wally’s voice had echoed down from above, frantic for once. “Don’t move! I’m getting something else! Just—don’t do anything weird!”

Which would be great advice. If this place wasn’t inherently weird.

The church scar hums around you. Frozen dust in streaks of old light. Water stains along the pews. The faint echo of something that already happened and refuses to let go.

You and Simon are sitting on the floor, backs pressed together—not for comfort, not officially—but because neither of you wants to risk something sneaking up behind you.

Your shoulder blades line up. Grounding.

For a while, neither of you talks.

You just breathe.

After everything—the scars, the figure, Split River, Janet, Maddie, almost being erased, almost not existing—it feels unreal that you’re still… here.

Still thinking. Still you.

Simon lets his head tip back slightly until it rests against yours.

“You ever think,” he starts quietly, “that statistically this makes zero sense?”

You huff faintly. “All of it?”

“All of it,” he confirms. “We got stuck between life and death. We’ve been chased by metaphysical trauma ghosts. We keep walking into cursed architectural features on purpose.”

A pause. Then— He starts laughing.

It’s not hysterical. Not panicked.

It’s disbelieving.

“I have no idea how we’re still alive,” he says through it, the words tumbling out. “It makes no sense.”

The sound echoes strangely off the scar’s warped walls.

For a second you just sit there. Then it hits you too. The absurdity.

The fact that you’ve almost drowned in memories that aren’t even current. That ropes spontaneously combust now. That Wally is probably upstairs trying to MacGyver something out of church furniture.

You start laughing. Not because it’s funny. Because if you don’t, you might spiral.

Your back shakes against his and that only makes him laugh harder.

“We are so bad at self-preservation,” Simon manages.

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back. “You followed me in here.”

“You jumped first!”

“And you didn’t stop me!”

“Because you never listen!”

You both dissolve again.

The laughter feels loud in a place that prefers silence. Defiant.

For the first time since falling, the church scar doesn’t feel quite as suffocating.

Simon inhales slowly as the laughter fades into breathless quiet.

“…Hey,” he says after a moment, softer now. “As long as we’re stuck like this?”

You wait.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

It’s simple. Honest. Not dramatic. Just fact.

You lean your head back slightly, letting it rest more fully against his.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Same.”

Above you, something scrapes—probably Wally dragging something heavy across the floor.

The scar creaks. But for now?

You’re still here. Still laughing.

Still, somehow—alive.