Morning arrived without asking permission.
Not because it was safe.
Not because it was earned.
Just because that's what mornings do.
Sylence woke to the sound of nothing in particular. No pulse in the walls. No pressure behind his eyes. No sensation of being observed by concepts pretending to be silence. The ceiling above him was only a ceiling—faint cracks, uneven paint, a small shadow where the light never quite reached.
It took him a moment to realize how unusual that felt.
He stayed there longer than necessary, listening to the apartment exist. Water pipes shifted. Somewhere outside, a vehicle passed. Heaven padded across the floor, claws clicking softly, then settled near the window with a sigh that suggested the world was behaving as expected.
Sylence exhaled.
The Gift rested in its cradle, dormant in the way only conscious things could choose to be. No hum. No glow. Not even anticipation. Cypher did not speak. Neither did Olethea. Joseph, mercifully, restrained himself.
Silence, for once, meant silence.
In the kitchen, Lucia was already awake, pouring tea with unhurried precision. She didn't look up immediately. She didn't need to.
"You slept," she said.
"Yes."
"Without dreaming?"
Sylence paused. Checked inward. Found nothing waiting there.
"Yes."
Lucia nodded, as if confirming a hypothesis, and slid a cup toward him. They drank without ceremony. The tea tasted normal. That mattered more than it should have.
Andrew wandered in next, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. "The internet hasn't ended," he announced. "Which means we're either doing great or horribly behind schedule."
"Groceries later?" Lucia asked.
Andrew looked at Sylence.
"Groceries later," Sylence confirmed.
The word later felt stable.
By midday, the apartment had filled with small, forgettable motions. Griffin stopped by to borrow a charger and stayed long enough to complain about systems that were finally behaving themselves.
"Nothing recursive," he said, almost disappointed. "No feedback loops. No paradox warnings."
Sylence shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Don't," Griffin replied. "I like my disasters scheduled."
They laughed. It wasn't nervous.
Tony and Peter were around too—physically present, mentally halfway elsewhere. Tony paced, tinkered, made coffee he forgot to drink. Peter sat on the floor with Heaven, trying to teach her a trick she had no interest in learning.
"So we're really just… here?" Peter asked at one point.
"For now," Sylence said.
Peter accepted that easily. That, more than anything, confirmed the calm.
In the late afternoon, Sylence stepped onto the balcony alone. The sea stretched out, flat and honest. No symbolism pressed itself forward. No future leaned in to listen.
He rested his hands on the railing.
For a long time, nothing demanded his attention.
Not the Septet.
Not the Mirror Crew.
Not the End Clause.
They existed. He knew that. The knowledge no longer carried weight.
Chaos was inevitable. Sylence had made peace with that truth long ago. But inevitability was not urgency. Storms did not invalidate clear skies. Endings did not erase middles.
And this—this quiet, unremarkable stretch of time—was a middle worth having.
That evening, the apartment lights dimmed naturally as the sun lowered. Conversations drifted, then settled. People went to their rooms. Doors closed without finality.
Sylence lay back on the couch, hands folded over his chest, listening to the rhythm of a world that was not asking to be saved.
The universe did not advance.
It did not threaten.
It did not speak.
It simply continued.
And for now—
that was enough.