The moment they stepped through the door, time went silent.
Not still—silent. As if even the seconds had paused to observe their entrance.
Duran's feet touched down on a surface that shimmered like obsidian and breathed like sand. The atmosphere wasn't air or vacuum—it was potential. Unformed. Listening.
The door closed behind them without sound.
"Are we dead?" Julia whispered, her voice barely a disturbance.
Duran's fingers tightened around hers. "No. But we're not in a place meant for living, either."
Before them stretched a world that looked like shattered glass suspended in an infinite sea. Shards of cities, forests, oceans, and skies floated around them, slowly spinning, intersecting. Some pieces glowed with memory, others dimmed with age. It was like walking through a graveyard of forgotten timelines.
"This..." Julia began, eyes wide, "This is the Root Plane."
Duran turned to her. "You've seen this before?"
"Not like this." She touched the air, and it rippled like water. "But I've dreamt of it. A place where all the versions of us were once seeded."
A soft chime echoed around them.
Then a voice—not a machine, not human. It spoke in thought, in tone, in resonance:
"Welcome, anomaly 0037-J and 0037-D."
Duran stiffened. Julia's hand clenched his.
"You have reached the Echo Lattice. This is not a test. This is a recognition."
The words weren't spoken. They appeared in the mind—each syllable wrapped in emotion: sorrow, awe, warning.
"Echo Lattice?" Julia murmured.
Before Duran could respond, the shards began to converge.
They floated toward a central island—made entirely of remembered moments. Duran saw, briefly, the park where he first saw her. The bench. His old apartment. Her father's clinic. But all were glitched—off, like dreams remembered too late.
They stepped onto the surface. Memory solidified under their weight.
As they crossed, the ground beneath them showed images from timelines they had touched—scenes replaying like projections beneath their feet.
Duran saw a version of himself alone, standing at a gravestone.
Julia saw herself as a child, watching her mother fade away during the First Collapse.
These were not hallucinations.
They were offers.
"Why is it showing us this?" Duran asked.
Julia's voice cracked. "Because it's asking who we really are."
Suddenly, the world folded in.
The shards around them shattered, and five versions of Julia appeared.
Not illusions.
Not echoes.
Living possibilities.
One wore armor. One wept uncontrollably. One had no eyes. One looked fifteen years older. And one—stood perfectly still, hands clasped in front of her like she'd been waiting.
The fifth one stepped forward.
"I am the Julia who chose logic over love."
Her voice was calm, clear. Almost cold.
"I saw the breach. I mapped it. I avoided the boy with the camera. I lived."
Duran looked to his Julia, confused.
The weeping Julia stepped forward next.
"I followed Duran. I gave everything. And he died."
Her voice broke. Her eyes held guilt.
Then the armored Julia: "I turned us into soldiers. Breach-fighters. We saved some worlds. But lost ourselves."
Then the blind one spoke: "I saw too much. Now I see nothing. I was a seer. A liar. A mirror."
Finally, all five turned to Julia.
Their Julia.
"Choose," they said in unison.
Julia staggered. "What... what is this?"
"These are the branches," the voice said again, gently. "You are convergence. But you must choose your core. Only one thread may remain in this world."
Duran stepped forward. "You can't just make her erase herself."
"This is not erasure. This is integration. The unchosen fragments will sleep. But the path must be one."
Julia shook her head. "No. They're me. All of them. Even the cold one."
Weeping Julia sniffled. "I remember holding him as he died. I can't forget that."
Blind Julia nodded. "And I remember the light before vision failed. I miss it."
Logical Julia held her stare. "The moment you loved him… you doomed everything."
Julia flinched.
Duran reached out, but didn't touch her. Not yet. He couldn't pull her out of this. It had to be hers.
Armored Julia stepped forward and placed a single hand on their Julia's chest.
"You're strong enough to hold us all. But you have to let go of what never happened."
Our Julia trembled.
Then whispered: "I want... love. But not blind. I want strength. But not armor. I want truth. But not at the cost of my heart."
She turned slowly, facing each echo.
"I choose all of you."
The world pulsed.
The echoes smiled—some with pain, some with joy.
Then, one by one, they stepped into her.
And disappeared.
When it was over, Julia fell to her knees.
Duran rushed to her side.
She looked up at him—and her eyes glowed faintly.
But it was still her. Just more her.
"Is it done?" he asked.
She nodded, tear rolling down her cheek. "I'm whole now."
Suddenly, the air shifted again.
A doorway formed ahead—not physical. A rift of warmth. A world calling.
But as they stood, another figure stepped through the ripple.
A man.
Not Ori.
But familiar.
Too familiar.
He looked just like Duran—except older. Wiser. Wounded.
Julia gasped. "You're—"
"Version 0037-D.14," he said with a smile. "I'm the one who made it home. Alone."
Duran stared. "You're me?"
"An echo. But not of your past. Of your possible future."
Julia clutched Duran's hand.
Future Duran looked at them, eyes tired. "You want to go home. You think you've earned it. But there's one more step."
Duran's voice hardened. "What step?"
"You have to let go of the future. All of it. You want to be together, truly—no breaches, no folds—you must stop predicting each other. No shields. No timelines. Only trust."
Julia whispered, "You're saying love has to be now. Not built on echoes or could-bes."
The future Duran nodded. "Otherwise, the echo never dies. It haunts."
He reached into his coat—and handed over a photo.
Of their wedding.
In a world that may never be.
Duran looked at it.
Then looked at Julia.
And tore it in half.
The echo smiled, proud. "Now you're ready."
And vanished.
They walked through the last doorway, hand in hand.
Not racing.
Not chasing.
Just moving forward.
The light beyond was warm.
The world waiting was unfinished.
But it was theirs.
They could build it together.
No more echoes.
No more fractures.
Just two hearts, finally in sync—
In the only moment that ever truly mattered:
Now.