One year later.
The world kept turning.
The shadows didn't come back.
And the past finally stayed buried.
Adanna had written it all down — every piece.
Not for the world.
Not for revenge.
But for herself.
A record of survival.
Of rebellion.
Of remembering.
Her memoir sat on the desk:
"Buried in Lies: A Life Unwritten."
She hadn't submitted it.
Hadn't published it.
Just finished it.
That was enough.
For now.
Malcolm called once a week.
Silas checked in monthly, always forwarding strange news articles — missing data facilities, defunct labs, old operatives who'd suddenly gone quiet.
"Ghosts cleaning house," he joked.
Adanna just smiled.
She wasn't haunted anymore.
She was watching.
She took long walks by the cliffs in the mornings, the wind sharp and honest.
And in the evenings, she sat under the stars, sometimes writing, sometimes just breathing.
The world no longer demanded her to be anything.
She wasn't an asset.
Wasn't a prototype.
Wasn't a threat.
She was just… Adanna.
And in her final journal entry, she wrote:
"They tried to erase me.
They tried to control me.
But I became something they couldn't program.
I became free.
I don't know what tomorrow brings.
But today, I belong only to myself."
She closed the book.
Locked it away.
And walked out into the open air —
Head high, heart whole.
Not buried in lies anymore.
Just living.