IT STARTED WITH A MAZE - Newt x Reader (F)

- EPILOGUE -

The crowd is a mixture of silence and soft murmurs. Some people sit cross-legged on the ground, others on logs, benches, or crates someone dragged in from the shore. Someone's dog is curled at their feet. Blankets are shared. Fingers are intertwined. No one stands alone.

Vince steps forward into the firelight, the glow casting deep shadows across his face. He looks older somehow, though maybe it's just the weight he carries. He raises his cup and speaks, his voice steady and clear. "We have come a long way together," he says, letting the words hang. His eyes roam the crowd. "So many sacrificed so much to make this place possible. Your friends. Your families."

I feel my heart tighten. My breath catches. Images flash behind my eyes - my mother's voice, my brother's laugh, the aching goodbyes I never got to say. And then other faces. Alby. Jeff. Winston. Jack. Too many to name. Too many to forget.

But then there's Minho beside me. His hand comes to rest lightly on my knee, grounding me. I manage a small, thankful smile and glance toward Thomas on Minho's other side. His eyes are already on me, warm, steady. Brenda sits just behind us, her knees tucked in, leaning slightly forward to be closer. I twist to meet her gaze, and she gives me a soft nod. Her presence feels like a quiet kind of strength.

Newt is on my left, always beside me now. His fingers find mine, intertwining slowly, deliberately. His thumb brushes over my knuckles and I feel it - every heartbeat, every breath we're lucky enough to have. I hold on tight.

Vince lifts his cup higher. "So here's to the ones who couldn't be here," he says. "Here's to the friends we lost." Around me, hands rise. Wood, tin, metal - whatever we've got. Cups and mugs clink together in a solemn, unified rhythm. It's not loud, but it echoes through the air like something sacred. A salute to the ghosts who carried us here. "This place is for you," Vince says. "This is for all of us." He turns then, motioning toward the center of camp where a tall stone pillar rises from the ground like something ancient, something permanent. "But this," Vince continues, "this is for them." In his hand is a knife, its edge catching the firelight. Without fanfare, he walks forward and drives the blade into a nearby wooden table. "In your own time, in your own way, come make your peace," he says, stepping back. "Carve their names. Make this place yours." His voice cracks slightly at the end. He pauses. Then, he raises his cup again, eyes glinting. "And welcome," he says, with quiet conviction, "to the Safe Haven."

There's a beat of silence.

Then the fire explodes with life - not the flames, but the people. Cheers rise, loud and warm. Laughter spills out alongside tears. Some clap, others raise their drinks again. A few cry openly. There's joy and grief colliding in the air around us, a celebration built from heartbreak, survival, and something like hope.

I turn to Newt again, and we don't need to say anything. His hand is still holding mine, and I feel the smallest tremble in his grip, like maybe he's crying too. Around the fire, faces shine in the golden glow - scarred, tired, beautiful. Some people are holding hands. Some are dancing. Others are just sitting still, staring into the flames. It's not perfect. It's not easy. But it's real. And it's ours.

As the sun sinks fully below the horizon, the sky turns a deeper violet, and the fire in the center of camp grows brighter by contrast. Its glow stretches across faces and flickers along the fabric of the makeshift tarps above, casting dancing shadows like something alive. The temperature drops quickly with the fading light, and people begin to layer up - pulling on sweaters, jackets, blankets slung over shoulders. You can hear the shift in tone: voices rise a little more freely now, laughter spills across the gathering, low conversation forming pockets of comfort.

There's music somewhere - not electronic, but real, improvised. Someone's strumming chords on a beat-up guitar, soft and steady. A drum rhythm starts up in the distance, probably just a flipped bucket and a couple of sticks, but it works. It adds to the atmosphere, warm and human.