In the pitch-black nothingness, where even echoes had long since died, a voice stirred.
It was neither male nor female, neither old nor young. It was a presence more than a sound — a ripple in the void, ancient and curious.
"Well… now this is interesting."
A faint hum accompanied the words, like the distant vibration of unseen strings being plucked. The void, once silent and absolute, seemed to listen.
"They've fought before, of course. So many times. A predictable dance of blood and resolve… but this…"
A pause. As though savoring the lingering threads of a broken world.
"This was new."
The voice shifted, amused.
"Time is moving again."
A beat of silence. Then, a soft, sardonic chuckle.
"Shall we begin?"
Somewhere in the unseen space, something ancient clicked into place.
And then, almost as an afterthought — yet heavier than all the words before it:
"Failed Timeline."
The term hung there like a verdict. A sentence passed down in a court no one remembered.
But then, the voice spoke once more, low and almost contemplative.
"Breaking the heart of a Timeline was supposed to make it vanish. Even a glitched one can't survive without a stable core. That's how it's always been. That's the rule."
A shiver rippled through the void.
"And yet… somehow…"
A flicker of something unseen, like the world twitching in its sleep.
"It stabilized itself."
Another pause. The tone sharpened — equal parts intrigue and warning.
"It brought all of them here."
A soft, humorless laugh.
"There's no turning back now."
And then, silence once again.
—
"Ah… you're still here, huh?"
A voice. Dry as old parchment, slick as oil. It wasn't meant for any of them.
It was meant for you.
"You've been following this, haven't you? All the little turns, the broken threads, the desperation… the countless resets."
A soft chuckle.
"And now… the cracks are showing."
In a dimly lit room, somewhere deep in Snowdin, a skeleton jolted upright in his chair. Sans, sweatless but panting, clutched his chest as if something sharp had speared him through the ribs.
His hand trembled.
And in that moment — a flicker.
A memory.
Of his death.
His body breaking apart, a final quip hanging on his lips, a red slash splitting the world in half. He could feel it, clear as day. It should've been impossible.
He was dead. Wasn't he?
His wide, hollow sockets stared down at his trembling palm.
"Looks like the past… is bleeding into the present."
The voice mused to no one. Or to everyone.
Sans stumbled to his feet, his knees weak, his sense of time and place unraveling around him like cheap thread. He pushed the door open and stumbled into the small living room of their house.
And there he was.
Papyrus.
Sitting on the couch, his back perfectly straight, his hands shaking faintly as they gripped his scarf.
Their eyes met.
And though neither spoke — they both knew.
"Yes… the monsters are remembering."
The voice was half-amused, half-wary now.
"Something's wrong. The Timeline was destabilizing too fast. Past and future are crashing down onto each other like waves. But… there's something else."
A pause. A flicker of unease.
"Something… bothering me."
The world seemed to shudder — the void behind reality flexing.
And far away, atop the rain-slicked stones of Mt. Ebott, a lone figure stood at the entrance of the Underground.
The cold wind tugged at her hair, and the distant echoes of the mountain seemed to hush at her presence.
Chara.
A small, bittersweet smile played on her lips — neither cruel nor kind. Just… resigned.
And in the quiet, in a voice so soft it barely reached the rain-soaked stones, she whispered:
"Have fun."
Frisk's final words.
A parting gift.
And then, the wind carried those words down into the dark below.
The voice fell silent.
But its presence lingered.
Because now, dear reader… it was your turn to wonder.
What comes next?