Those Who Remain Novels & Stories

The people ready. The stayed things. The correct amount.

Still alive. Still fighting.

But still there. Still us.

I reply. He considers that. “Those aren’t the same,” he says. “No,” I agree. “But they rhyme.” He smiles. “Do you know which one this is?” I think. “This is staying without clinging,” I say. “And leaving without fleeing.” “That’s a narrow path,” he replies. “Yes,” I say. “But it’s the only one that doesn’t cost me myself.” Remaining, I learn, isn’t about endurance. It’s about consent. Ongoing.

You cannot build a network of doors without eventually asking what changes the rooms people keep having to flee. Yes. The infrastructure can interface. It already has—more than you know. The contact points I maintain in twelve territories are, most of them, people who stayed. People who chose to remain inside and use the access that invisibility gave them. I called them something in my own notes. I never shared it because it wasn't finished. I will share it now: I called them the Still Waters. The ones who didn't run. The ones who ran deep instead. You were one. You just didn't know there were others.

Exactly as it would remain. Forever.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Only continuation. Only practice. Only what lived because of them. And would continue living. Long after they stopped watching.

This wasn’t over. Not yet.

Even the usual night sounds crickets, owls, wind were missing. “Kye,” I said softly. “We’re not alone.” His spear was in his hands before the sentence finished. “How close?” “Not close enough to strike yet,” I whispered, closing my eyes. I could feel them. Not the cloaked ones. Not the creature. “They’re not enemies,” I added. “But they’re not allies either.” Mira frowned. “Then what are they?” “Remnants,” I said. Finnick sat up slowly, wincing. “Of what?”

The circle held. Complete. Unbroken. Burning still.