The October sun filtered through the kitchen window of Tylor's Victorian home, casting golden warmth across the table where Amaira sat, her pigtails tied with new ribbons, coloring in a fresh book. The crayons, too bright and unworn, were a reminder of the shifted timeline they'd returned to, a 2025 both familiar and strange. Tylor leaned against the counter, his hazel eyes tracing the room's subtle differences—a clock with a louder tick, a fridge magnet from a town he'd never visited. Kayla stood beside him, her denim jacket now patchless, her green eyes softened but alert, the weight of her fracture-linked dreams quieter but not gone. Elias had left to bury Lila's memory in his own way, his grizzled farewell heavy with shared loss. The basement lab's new journal page—The Collective endures—lay on the table, its spiral symbol a silent threat.
Amaira paused, holding up a drawing of their family: Tylor, herself, and Kayla, standing under a tree that wasn't quite the oak outside. "It's us," she said, her voice bright but tinged with caution, as if testing this new world. The blank coloring book, where her old drawings should've been, still stung, a small scar of their victory over the Chronarch—his future self, defeated in the Hub's collapse.
Kayla smiled, brushing Amaira's hair. "It's perfect, Mai." But her glance at Tylor carried the unspoken: this timeline wasn't theirs, not fully. The photo from the fair, with its unfamiliar Ferris wheel, sat on the counter, a reminder of the fractures' cost. "We're home," she said, her voice steady, "but we need to watch for them—the Collective."
Tylor nodded, his chest tight. The Chronarch's shadow was gone, but his mother's sacrifice, his father's whistleblower fight, and Lila's death fueled his resolve. "I need to see him," he said, his voice low. "Dad. I need to know what he knows." The log from the Hub, naming Daniel a traitor to the Collective, had shifted Tylor's anger—his father hadn't just hidden Amaira; he'd tried to stop the fractures.
The prison's visiting room was cold, its gray walls stark under fluorescent lights. Daniel sat across the glass, his gaunt face older than Tylor remembered, his eyes—once sharp with secrets—now weary. "You look like her," Daniel said, his voice rough, meaning Elena, Tylor's mother. "I heard… you went somewhere. Did things."
Tylor's fists clenched, the memory of Amaira's disappearance—Daniel's doing—still raw. "We stopped the Chronarch," he said, his voice tight. "Found your log in the Hub. You tried to stop the Collective. Why didn't you tell me?"
Daniel's gaze dropped. "I thought I was protecting you. Them—the Collective—they're still out there. They contacted me, even here. Said time's not done with you." His voice cracked, a warning and a plea. "Be careful, Tylor. They don't forgive."
Tylor's throat tightened, his father's words echoing the journal page. Forgiveness was distant, but understanding flickered—Daniel had fought, like him. "We'll handle it," Tylor said, standing, his resolve hardening. "For Mai."
Back home, Amaira ran to him, her drawing now framed on the wall, Kayla's addition to their family cemented. "You're back!" she said, her hug fierce. Kayla's hand found his, her eyes warm but vigilant. "What did he say?" she asked, the Collective's threat unspoken.
"They're watching," Tylor said, his voice steady. "But we're ready." The kitchen, with its new clock and old warmth, was their anchor. The Collective loomed, but with Amaira's courage, Kayla's fire, and the scars of their journey—Elena's love, Daniel's fight, Lila's sacrifice—they'd face it. This new normal, fragile but theirs, was worth defending, no matter what time brought next.