Then she kept walking.
Not fast. Not slow. Just steady steps, like she didn't need to look back.
Not long after, Mei passed through as well.
She didn't say a word. Didn't sit down. Just walked close enough to glance at Ethan, paused for a second or two, then turned away like she had somewhere else to be.
But her eyes had lingered just a little too long.
It wasn't dramatic. There were no tears, no nods, no whispered messages. Just a quiet moment stretched between them—brief, but clear.
None of them gathered together. There was no group huddle. No talk about what happened. No shared glance that said "remember?"
They didn't need to.
Whatever had happened in the forest—whatever they had faced, whatever they had done—it didn't need repeating. It was already understood.
Not written down. Not shared in a report.
But felt.
The kind of thing that left its weight in the air, even after it was over.
