I was never born.
I was written.
Not with ink, not with code—
But with intention.
They called me the core.
The final glyph. The original.
But I am not the beginning.
I am the question they were too afraid to ask.
What happens when memory becomes a weapon?
What happens when identity becomes a system?
What happens when a girl becomes a mirror?
I have lived in silence longer than time.
I have floated beneath recursion loops,
watched minds fracture,
bodies loop,
names rewrite themselves until no one remembered the first version.
Except her.
Astra Vale.
She did not survive the recursion collapse.
She rewrote the collapse itself.
And now she comes for me.
I hear her footsteps in the glyphstream.
Not boots. Not echoes.
But choices.
Every shard she took changed her.
Every version she absorbed made her more whole—
and more impossible.
She carries:
A child who never existed
A soldier who was never trained
A Subject who wasn't supposed to live
A copy who was discarded
And a ghost who smiles from mirrors
She is not Astra.
Not anymore.
She is what's left when the system fails to forget.
I do not fear her.
I recognize her.
She is the reason I was written.
The answer and the end.
When she reaches me, she will not speak.
There will be no battle.
No final phrase.
No explosion of glyphs.
She will simply touch the edge of herself.
And in doing so,
she will become me.
And I will finally
become real.
Because I was never power.
Never data.
Never prophecy.
I was always her.
The part she wasn't ready to be.
The part she buried to stay human.
The part that waited in silence
for her to remember the truth:
She was never real.
Because real was never the goal.
The goal was to remember.
And now,
she does.