You and your companions regressed. You made it to the final scenario... You finally reached Kim Dokja, but you failed. You all have failed. The scene at the last train car still haunts you, with the letters and sentences coming from Kim Dokja's small body flit and flutter in the air.

... You feel. Empty.

“Orabeoni.”

Whenever Mia uses that term, she wants to ask you (for) something.

You knew that after going through many, many regressions, but you listen to her, anyway. You owe that to her after the many lives you've failed her, after having trained her and allowed her to suffer the scenarios alongside you another four years. This time, you were able to protect her. She did not need to die. She did not need to be sacrificed. Your sister is here in front of you because of a man, a man who is no longer here—Kim Dokja.

...

She quietly stares at you and you stare back, but you worry that she will read you. Mia is smart, intuitive, and knows you well. Maybe that's why her next string of words isn't so rude.

“Orabeoni, you did your very best. No one can do more or better than what you have already done.”

... Do you look so sad that your sister is comforting you? You're a poor excuse of an older brother, of a guardian, and you want to reassure her. Before you can utter a word, she climbs up on a chair and places her hand on the crown of your head. Pat pat. The child you've raised since infancy is trying to lift your spirits.

... It makes you feel worse, but grateful.

“Let’s stop and go back home.”

You can go back home, the ending that Kim Dokja gave you and everyone else. You don't answer back, but you pick her up from the chair and she settles on your arm. Holding her close, you give her a hug and she keeps patting your head.

You two have been through so much.