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

- EPILOGUE -

I stay seated for most of it. My legs are heavy, my abdomen aches sharply whenever I shift too quickly, and due to the painkillers, fatigue settles over me like a second skin. My body is still in recovery mode, and it knows it. But my heart feels light. Or maybe just content.

Newt barely leaves my side. He's there, quiet and constant. The times he does get up are brief - once to get me a bowl of food, another to refill my cup with something warm. Each time, he returns before I've even started missing him, slipping back down beside me with a soft touch to my arm, a brush of fingers to check if I'm cold.

He doesn't talk much tonight, not to others beyond our friends, not unless spoken to, but his presence says more than any words. I lean against him when the wind picks up, and he leans right back, like a promise.

Frypan's in the kitchens - of course. He's got this gleam in his eye, a towel over one shoulder, his hands busy and proud. The meal he serves is nothing fancy - rice, roasted vegetables, something hearty and warm - but it tastes better than anything I've had in years. Real food, made with care.

After the eating and the talking, come the quieter rituals. The ones that matter in ways we don't have words for.

It's my time to approach the stone pillar. The firelight hits its surface in golden slashes. I've seen others approach with blades or nails or whatever they can use to carve. Some bring charcoal or burned ends of sticks. The post is already covered in the beginnings of names, initials, symbols. Memories.

I rise slowly, stiff but determined, and Newt helps me walk over. He doesn't say anything - just keeps his hand gently against my back. When it's my turn, I reach for Vince's knife still planted in the wood. I don't hesitate.

I write her name first. My mother's. The letters come out a little shaky, but firm enough to last. It's more than a memorial - it's a re-grounding. I can almost feel her with me as I step back.

Then I gesture to Gally.

He's standing nearby, hands in his pockets, watching the fire with that thoughtful quiet he wears when he thinks no one's looking. When I call him over, he steps forward slowly, glancing at me.

Gally understands without me needing to say anything. The weight of what I'm asking and offering hitting him behind the eyes. He doesn't speak - just takes the blade and carves Chuck's name like it's etched in his bones.

In the stone, other Gladers are already there. Jeff. Clint. Winston. Their names freshly written. My throat tightens. I'm glad to see them remembered. I'm glad we're doing this right.

I pause for one more thing.

My brother's name. Gally did it higher up and I need to extend my arms to get close to it. I bite through the pain, and under his name, I draw a small sun - just a simple circle with little rays.

It feels right.

We were one another's sunshine. Always will be.

Newt helps me steady myself, his hands bracing gently around my waist. "Thank you," I whisper, to no one and everyone.

And the pillar stands tall beside us, names upon names climbing its surface like vines - memories carved into permanence. A grounding place. A sacred thing. The fire behind us crackles. Voices rise again. A little louder. A little lighter. Laughter echoes under the tarp.

And I find myself smiling through the tears.

We made it.

And we're not forgetting anyone.

Not ever.

Newt and I settle back into a seat built into the slope of the land - rough-cut wood, smoothed down by many hands. It creaks a little beneath our weight, but it's sturdy. Thomas spots us across the way and joins us in a silence. The firelight spills upward, casting everyone in gold and amber.