The Echo of Avalon drifted silently toward the low-hanging branches of the Grove. These were not branches of wood, but of solidified time—translucent emerald veins that hummed with the echoes of ancient songs. The "Water" below, that sea of liquid gears, slowed to a rhythmic, hypnotic tick.
Aryan stood at the edge of the bone-white deck. Opposite him, standing on a pier made of solidified ivory mist, was his mirror. The Time-Ghost. He was the Aryan who never answered the call of Villa 404. He was the Aryan who stayed in a small Mumbai apartment, writing mediocre romances and drinking lukewarm coffee. He was clean, his skin was unmarred by bark, and his eyes were full of a terrifying, boring peace.
"Look at you," the Ghost said, his voice a perfect, hollow imitation of Aryan's own. "You are a monster of mahogany. You are a freak of the forest. You've traded your pen for a parasite."
Aryan looked at his mahogany arm. The wood felt heavy, the dark bark scarred from the battle with the Carver. "I traded my safety for my sister," Aryan replied, his voice echoing with the depth of the timber.
"Safety is the only thing that matters, Aryan," the Ghost sneered. He opened his notebook—the one Aryan had lost years ago. He dipped his fingers into a well of Ink of Regret, a liquid so dark it seemed to suck the light out of the Grove.
With a flick of his wrist, the Ghost splashed the ink toward the ship.
Where the ink touched the mahogany hull of the ship, the wood began to vanish. It wasn't being destroyed; it was being erased. The history of the bone-ship, the memories of the Grove—it all started to dissolve into a blank, white void.
"I am the story you should have written," the Ghost chanted. "I am the sleep you should have had. Return to the ink, little Seed. Become a dream again."
The ink hit Aryan's mahogany shoulder. Immediately, a wave of cold numbness washed over him. He felt the strength leaving his wooden arm. The bark began to turn pale, losing its rich color, turning into thin, paper-like shavings. Aryan fell to one knee, his human heart stuttering.
He saw a vision of his "Normal Life." He saw himself sitting at a desk, the sun hitting his face. He saw a version of Rhea who was a bank teller, boring and safe. He saw a version of Mira... but Mira wasn't there. In his "Normal Life," Mira was just a name he had never heard.
"Aryan, don't let him erase us!" Rhea cried out, trying to reach him, but the white void was growing between them.
Barnaby the fish flopped frantically in his bowl. "Oh, dash it all! He's using 'Narrative Erasure'! Aryan, you must find a 'Plot Twist'! Think of something that isn't in his boring little book!"
The Ghost laughed, stepping onto the deck. The ink followed him like a loyal shadow. "There are no twists left, brother. You are a man who wanted to be a hero, but you ended up as a statue. Just let go. Let the ink take the pain away."
Aryan's eyes began to glaze over. The white void was peaceful. No Master. No Weaver. No silver rot. Just... nothing.
But then, a warm, soft hand pressed against his human cheek.
Mira knelt beside him. She didn't look at the Ghost. She looked only at Aryan. She took his mahogany hand—the one that was turning to paper—and pressed it against her own human heart.
"I am not in his book, Aryan," Mira whispered. Her hazel eyes were fierce with a human fire. "I was a shadow you turned into a woman. I am a knot in your grain that he cannot understand."
"Mira..." Aryan gasped, the ink's numbness fighting her warmth.
"He is perfection," Mira said, looking at the Ghost with contempt. "But perfection has no flavor. It has no scent. It has no memory of a spicy kebab or the cold of a mountain rain. Aryan, your bark is your history. Don't let him turn your scars into blank pages."
She leaned in and kissed the mahogany bark of his shoulder, right where the ink was darkest.
The kiss wasn't a weapon this time. It was an Anchor.
Mira poured her new, messy human memories into him. She showed him the feeling of her first breath as a human. She showed him the terror of the Wall of Tears. She showed him the love she felt when he chose to be a tree for her.
The mahogany arm reacted. The paper-shavings turned back into dense, dark timber. The amber light in Aryan's chest roared back to life, fueled by the "Flaw" of their love.
Aryan stood up. He reached out and grabbed the Ghost's notebook with his mahogany hand.
"You are a good story," Aryan said, his voice a thunderous rumble. "But you are a finished one. I am still being written."
Aryan didn't strike the Ghost. He simply squeezed the notebook. His mahogany sap—the golden, glowing liquid—poured into the pages. The ink of regret met the sap of life.
The notebook didn't burn. It sprouted.
Tiny green leaves erupted from the pages. The ink turned into a rich, dark soil. The Time-Ghost let out a cry of confusion as his silver-silk suit began to turn into moss. He wasn't being killed; he was being "Reclaimed" by the forest.
"You... you chose the pain?" the Ghost whispered, his body becoming translucent.
"I chose the truth," Aryan said.
The Ghost dissolved into a flurry of white jasmine petals, which settled softly on the deck of the ship. The white void vanished, and the Hanging Grove returned in all its iridescent beauty.
Aryan stood tall, his mahogany arm now darker and stronger than ever before. He looked at Mira, who was leaning against the railing, breathless and radiant.
"I say," Barnaby bubbled, breaking the silence. "That was a bit close, wasn't it? I almost had to write a sequel called 'The Fish Who Lived Alone.' It would have been very depressing. Lots of chapters about algae."
Rhea hugged Aryan, her eyes wet with tears. "You stayed. You chose us."
"I always will," Aryan said.
They turned their attention to the center of the Hanging Grove. The emerald branches parted, revealing a massive, circular door made of Starlight Glass. Through the glass, they could see a chamber filled with white lilies that glowed with an internal light.
And in the center of the lilies sat a woman.
She wasn't a tree. She wasn't a machine. She was Sunita Khanna, as beautiful as the day she disappeared. But she was sitting at a massive, golden spinning wheel, weaving threads of emerald light into the roots of the world.
Beside her stood the Master—Valerius. He had his hand on her shoulder, and he was holding a massive, silver clock-key.
"She is almost wound, Aryan," the Master's voice boomed from the chamber. "The Queen of the Grove will soon be the Heart of the Clockwork Sea. And when I turn the key, the forest will stop breathing... and the machines will begin to dream."
Aryan stepped off the ship, his mahogany feet hitting the starlight glass with a sound of ancient destiny.
"Maa!" Rhea cried out.
The woman at the wheel didn't look up. Her eyes were fixed on the emerald threads, her hands moving with a mechanical, tragic rhythm.