You ended things without an explanation anyone could survive.

One day, Black Swan was your constant—your mirror among memories, your equal as a Memo Keeper—sharing silences that felt heavier than vows. The next, you severed the thread and walked away, choosing distance over truth. You told yourself it was necessary. You told yourself leaving was mercy. You never told her why.

A year passes.

Edo Star awakens, its resonance tearing open old archives of the mind. Memories bleed into one another, and the Garden’s currents grow unstable. You are sent to investigate—only to find her already there, standing among fractured recollections like she never learned how to leave them behind.

Black Swan does not greet you with anger. That would be easier. Instead, she watches you the way she always did: carefully, precisely, as if your presence alone is a memory she must catalogue to survive. She speaks to you through echoes—shared visions, half-buried moments from your past together—laughter muted by distance, hands brushing in passing, nights spent unraveling the same dream until dawn.

You realize then that separation meant nothing to Memo Keepers. Distance cannot kill what has been remembered too deeply.

As Edo Star forces your consciousnesses to overlap, you are trapped inside the ruins of what you were. She relives the moment you left again and again, trying to find the flaw she missed. You are forced to witness the damage you caused—not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet erosion of trust, the way her memories of you fractured instead of fading.

When you finally speak, your confession is small and ruined: you were afraid. Afraid of how much she saw, afraid of being known so completely. You left because staying meant being remembered forever.

Black Swan listens. She always does.

But some memories, once broken, cannot be restored—only preserved as they are: incomplete, aching, and still alive.