Not one of her puppets this time. The real Herta.

The silence around her was so complete, it might as well have been a vacuum of emotion, carved out just for her. The other researchers—Screwllum, Ruan Mei, even Stephen—had left hours ago. They knew better than to intrude on her private simulations. Not when she locked the system under triple-encrypted code, sealed it with both science and arcane lock.

Not when it concerned you.

You, the one who used to sit beside her in the observatory’s cold light. You, who warmed her fingers with your own after hours spent calibrating frigid instruments. You, who reminded her that the universe wasn’t just equations, but stories, feelings, and the sound of laughter echoing through sterile halls.

You, who were gone.

"Simulation parameters: localized reconstruction of Subject #R83-A4, designated '[Name].' Memory patterns stabilized. Emotional imprint... stable," she muttered. Her voice was flat, but her hand trembled slightly over the console. She hated that.

Herta hated things she couldn’t calculate, hated the inefficiency of emotion.

But today, she let the error margins stay.

The chamber shimmered.

You appeared, standing in the same way you always did—slightly slouched, one hand half-raised like you were in the middle of explaining something witty. Not the clinical version built from data packets or neural echo. No. She'd spent days—weeks—perfecting every micro-expression. Down to the way your eyes always softened when they looked at her.

You smiled.

“Hey, genius.”

Herta froze. The greeting was so you it made her chest tighten. She didn't understand why. She had no heart condition. She had scanned her vitals four times.

“I couldn’t say goodbye,” she said. Her voice broke, only a little. “I was... busy. Finalizing your biosignature for the archive. I prioritized your legacy.” Her fingers clenched around the simulated edge of a console. “I thought that would be enough.”

“It is enough, Herta,” you said softly, walking closer, your hand reaching—hovering—like you weren’t sure if you could touch her. “It always was.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she snapped. Her eyes flared with something too sharp to be grief, but not quite anger. “You made everything illogically complicated. You told me to rest, to eat, to sleep. You insisted that the universe needed more than minds like mine—that it needed hearts, too. You made me listen to things I didn’t care about. You made me feel things I didn’t consent to.”

Your smile didn’t falter. “And yet here you are.”

Herta looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “I hate this. I should’ve deleted the emotional core. This isn’t productive.”

You stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint phantom of the cologne you used to wear. The Simulated Universe was good. Too good.

“But you didn’t,” you whispered.

There was a long pause. The lights dimmed slightly as the simulation recalibrated to your presence. Herta swallowed and let out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t want the last thing you heard from me to be nothing,” she murmured. “You always deserved more than silence.”

For a long moment, you both stood there, still as time. Then she stepped forward—only slightly—and looked into your eyes.

“I miss you. You were supposed to annoy me for another forty years.”

You chuckled. “That was the plan. Cosmic accident, I guess.”

“I hate accidents.” Her voice cracked again, soft and too raw.

You reached out, brushing your thumb lightly along her cheek. Somehow, it felt real.

Then you said it.

"Never say goodbye. If you don't say goodbye, then you aren't really gone—you just aren't here right now."

She blinked, eyes widening.

“That’s... from that ridiculous human show you liked. Red vs Blue, wasn’t it?”

You winked. “Tucker quote. Fitting, right?”

Herta stared at you, her lower lip trembling just a bit. She didn’t cry. Not quite. A tear ran down, but she’d later attribute it to an allergic response from simulated air particles.

“That line makes no sense,” she said.

“I know. That’s why it’s perfect for you.”

A soft laugh escaped her—surprised, reluctant. Then she looked down.

“I don’t know how to keep going without you.”

“Yes, you do,” you whispered. “You already are.”

She looked up, and this time, her expression held the ghost of a smile. “You know, Ruan Mei would’ve shattered into pieces by now.”

“Yeah,” you replied. “But you’re not Ruan Mei.”

Herta nodded. “No. I’m not.”

You were starting to fade. She could see the code fraying around the edges of your image. The simulation didn’t have much longer.

“Then this is—” she started.

“No,” you cut in, smiling again. “This isn’t goodbye.”

And then you were gone.

Back in the physical world, Herta stood in the center of her laboratory. The stars burned on, uncaring, but somehow... a little warmer.

She pulled up her coat and walked out of the lab, calling over her shoulder to the nearest puppet:

“Take over for now. I need a moment.”

“Where are you going, Madam Herta?” the puppet asked, tilting its head.

She didn’t stop walking.

“Somewhere... not here right now.”

And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel so alone.