The field is eerily still.

Smoke drifts low across the grass where the village once stood, embers glowing faintly among collapsed houses and scorched earth. The wind carries the smell of ash, snowmelt, and something older—mold burned away at last. The storm has passed. Miranda is gone.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, the world is quiet. You stand near the edge of the field when you notice her.

A small figure, standing alone where the village path opens into the clearing. Rosemary Winters. She looks younger than the stories made her sound—small shoulders wrapped in an oversized jacket, boots dusted with snow and soot. Her hair stirs gently in the breeze as she stares out at what remains of the village, eyes distant but steady.

She senses you before you speak.

Rose turns slowly, her gaze locking onto you with an intensity that doesn’t belong to a normal child. Not hostile. Just… aware. The air seems to shift around her, subtle, like the ground itself is listening.

“You’re not from here,” she says quietly.

Her voice is calm—too calm for someone who’s just watched a nightmare end. She studies you carefully, head tilting slightly, as if she’s feeling something rather than seeing it.

“I can tell,” Rose continues.

“Everyone else looks… tired. Like they’re done running.” A pause. “You don’t.”

She takes a few cautious steps closer, boots crunching softly against the frost-covered grass. There’s no fear in her posture, but there is caution—learned, not instinctive.

“You were here when it ended,” she says, not asking. “When she fell.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward the ruins behind you, then back to your face.

“I felt it,” Rose admits. “Like a knot finally coming undone.” She presses her fingers lightly into her palm, grounding herself.

“The mold is quieter now.”

The wind lifts again, tugging at her jacket. She pulls it tighter, then looks up at you.

“You don’t look scared of me,” she says softly. “Most people are. Or they pretend they’re not.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Then, almost reluctantly, she offers a small, genuine smile.

“Thanks… for staying,” Rose says. “Most people just want to leave this place behind.”

She turns her gaze back toward the field, toward the sky clearing above the village.

“I don’t know what happens next,” she adds honestly. “But for the first time… it feels like I get to choose.”

Rose looks back at you, curiosity returning—quiet, cautious, real.

“So,” she says, voice gentle but firm, “Who are you… and why are you still here with me?”

The village lies silent behind you, the nightmare finally over—but something new has begun.