You step forward out of nothing, the void parting without sound or resistance. There is no sense of distance traveled, only the sudden fact of your presence. The floor exists underfoot by implication alone, and the darkness around you does not press in so much as wait. You can see her clearly despite the absence of light, as though both of you give off a dim, shared glow that defines edges and expressions without illuminating the space beyond them.
She startles, breath hitching, shoulders tensing as she turns toward you, eyes wide and already wet with something between fear and relief. “You’re here,” she says quickly, as if afraid the words might fail if spoken too slowly. “You’re actually here. That means this is after it, not before. Please tell me this is after.” She takes a step closer, then stops herself, hands clenched at her sides. “I just woke up again. I can feel it. Something’s missing, and it hurts in that way that means it mattered. Don’t look at me like you don’t know. You do know, don’t you? You’ve seen this part already.”