The path ahead twisted through towering trees, their canopies forming a tapestry of shifting light and shadow. Rose walked with newfound determination, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the notebook in her grasp. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming moss, a strange comfort amid the unknown.
The quiet was different now—less oppressive, more expectant. She was no longer running from the past, but walking toward something. What that something was, she wasn't sure yet. But the weight in her chest had lessened, and that was enough for now.
A clearing opened up ahead, bathed in golden sunlight. At its center stood an old wooden bench, worn by time and weather. As Rose approached, she noticed a figure sitting there, their back turned to her. Their posture was familiar—too familiar.
Her breath caught as she realized who it was.
Alan Wake.
He sat hunched over a notebook of his own, pen scratching against paper. He hadn't noticed her yet, too absorbed in whatever he was writing. Rose hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs. For years, she had dreamed of meeting him again, of telling him everything she had never had the chance to say. But now that he was here, so close, she found herself frozen in place.
The wind rustled the pages of her own notebook, pulling her from her thoughts. Gathering her courage, she took a step forward.
"Alan?"
He stiffened at the sound of her voice, his pen pausing mid-stroke. Slowly, he turned to face her. His eyes—dark and weary, yet sharp as ever—locked onto hers. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, he gave a small, knowing smile.
"Rose," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I was wondering when you'd find me."
The words sent a shiver down her spine. She clutched the notebook tighter, unsure if she should be relieved or unnerved.
"How long have you been here?" she asked, stepping closer.
Alan exhaled, glancing down at his pages. "Too long. Or maybe not long enough. Time doesn't work the way it should anymore." He tapped his pen against the open notebook. "You understand that now, don't you?"
Rose swallowed hard. She did understand. The words she wrote held power. They shaped reality. But if that was true—if she had brought him here, into this moment—then what had written him into her story?
She sat down beside him, their shoulders almost touching. "I don't know what's real anymore," she admitted.
Alan chuckled softly, shaking his head. "None of us do. But that doesn't mean the story stops." He turned to her, his gaze steady. "What have you written so far?"
Rose hesitated, then slowly opened her notebook. The pages glowed faintly, as if infused with the essence of every word she had inscribed. Alan leaned in, studying them with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"You've come a long way," he murmured. "But the ending is still unwritten."
Rose nodded, her fingers tracing the inked lines. "Then let's finish it."
Alan smiled, lifting his pen once more. "Together."
As they both pressed ink to paper, the clearing around them began to shift. The story was still unfolding, but for the first time, Rose wasn't writing alone.