The world was whole again.
But it was not mine.
I stood at the edge of the street, the neon glow of the city casting long shadows against the pavement. It looked the same—the buildings, the skyline, the people moving through the night as though nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
The air felt too clean as if reality itself had been scrubbed of its fractures and imperfections. The timeline had been rewritten, every erased soul restored, every broken path mended. I should have felt victorious.
Instead, I felt erased.
I clenched my fists, my breath steady but hollow. No one looked at me. No one hesitated, no one paused. The people I had fought for, bled for, died for—they walked past me as though I was just another nameless figure in the crowd.
Was I?
Had I undone myself
