The Tree of Seasons, Part 1

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 95 VP - 5100 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 87 VP - 7700 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 77 VP - 5000 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 76 VP - 11400 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 75 VP - 5700 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 4350 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 62 VP - 8100 BP - 2 Achievs (used)
Dawn - 60 VP - 8300 BP - 3 Achievs
Emi - 47 VP - 6050 BP - 1 Achiev
Chloe - 45 VP - 7775 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 23 VP - 7100 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 15 VP - 6800 BP
Laura - 13 VP - 6950 BP

The elevator doors slid open with a sigh, and the three of them—Andy and both Lauras, moving in uncanny mirror—emerged into the Main Lobby. For a half-second, there was silence, as if the hallway itself was trying to decide how to react. Then a rustle, and Erin and Claire straightened from their seats on a low bench opposite the elevator, each bracing in a way that said they’d been there for hours.

Erin stood first. Her skin was an impossibly soft mint green, and the morning sun made it glow, almost pearlescent, against the plain white wall. Her hair was pulled back, damp at the ends, and her body was utterly, uncompromisingly naked—she hadn’t bothered with anything but a pair of running shoes, and the J-cup breasts (so new Andy still sometimes forgot to expect them) seemed to hover at impossible defiance of gravity. Her eyes locked on Andy, then the Lauras, then away, then back, all in a single flicker.

Andy recognized that look immediately: concern first, then calculation, then the practiced act of not letting either one show.

Claire was dressed in a gray T-shirt dress, cat’s tail curled in an S-shape like punctuation. Her notebook was open and already half filled; she snapped it shut the instant she saw them, but her fingers kept twitching as if itching to keep writing. Her pale blue eyes darted to the Lauras, then to Andy, then back, her face a study in neutral intensity.

Laura’s two bodies stopped, frozen in the threshold, arms tight to their sides. Andy watched both of her faces go rigid, every muscle in both jaws flexing at the same time. A red flush bloomed on both her chests, as if her whole body was working overtime to cover for the terror.

Nobody spoke, but the silence was a living thing. It coiled up from the floor and wrapped itself around them, squeezing until Andy’s heart hammered.

Finally, Laura—both of her—found a voice. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted. The words were doubled, stereo and jarring. “I— It wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—” She stopped, realizing she was talking over herself, and one body pressed its fists to its mouth, while the other hunched forward, like she was trying to compress herself to a singularity.

Andy stepped forward before anyone else could speak. “This one’s on me,” he said, calm but clear. “I lost track of time. Curfew hit. Laura didn’t know.”

Erin’s mouth twisted, as if she was fighting to keep her face from giving anything away. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she hadn’t slept, but the gaze was clear, sharp, almost painful in its directness. Her eyes flicked to Andy—just for a second—but it was enough. Not anger. Something closer to hurt she hadn’t decided what to do with yet.

Claire moved next. She rose, closing her notebook with a little snap and stashing it in the small canvas bag she carried everywhere. She crossed to Laura’s left side and gently rested a hand on her arm, then gave a subtle shake of her head: not now. Laura flinched at the touch, but didn’t pull away.

Andy swallowed the urge to keep talking. Claire was right.

“Did you sleep?” she asked Laura. The words were flat, but not cold.

Laura nodded, both bodies at once.

“Good,” Erin said. She hesitated, then added: “I was worried.”

“I didn’t mean to be gone all night,” Laura said, voices just slightly out of sync. “I thought—I was going to come back. But I… lost track.” She looked at Erin, eyes bright with guilt. “I’m really sorry.”

Claire stepped between them, her tail flicking up to rest against Laura’s hip, a little anchor. She pulled out her notebook, scribbled rapidly, then showed it to Laura, Erin, and Andy:

It’s okay. Let’s do breakfast, then talk?

Andy nodded immediately. “That sounds right.”

Erin looked at him again—longer this time. There it was: the unspoken question. Where do I stand? Andy didn’t answer it with words. He didn’t look away either.

“Come on,” Erin said at last, tilting her head toward the corridor. “You probably haven’t eaten.”

Laura started to protest—Andy could see it forming on her lips—but then swallowed the protest and just nodded, moving in sync. Claire fell in on Laura’s left, notebook tucked under her arm, while Erin took the right, walking just slightly ahead, shoulders stiff but not closed off. Andy trailed behind, feeling like an intruder in his own aftermath.

They made their way down the corridor, the three (four?) women falling into step together, Andy a half-pace behind. He was used to being at the center of things, but this was the first time in recent memory he’d felt truly peripheral.

At the doors to the main dining room, Claire gestured for Andy to hang back. She made a tiny “wait here” motion with her hand, then ushered Laura and Erin inside, shutting the door behind them with a soft click. Andy was left staring at the polished brass handle, wondering if he was being protected, punished, or merely sidelined until the moment had cooled.

He sank onto a bench by the wall, heart pounding. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Jealousy? Hostility? A duel at dawn with thrown jam jars? Instead, the whole exchange had felt… oddly functional. Like watching a family deal with a flood: panic first, then the measured, exhausted work of mopping up.

He didn’t feel excluded so much as… deferred. Claire had made a call, and he respected it. A minute passed. Then another. Andy resisted the impulse to summon Erin—resisted the ease of fixing proximity instead of trust. He stayed outside for a long minute, trying to parse what had just happened. Eventually, he heard a faint murmur from inside—Erin’s voice, low and urgent, and then Laura’s, doubled and apologetic, and then a burst of laughter, bright and clear and absolutely not what he expected. He strained to listen, but the door refused to give up more.

When the door opened again, Claire stepped out. She looked at Andy, her expression softening a notch, and gestured for him to come in.

He followed, steeling himself.

Inside, Laura and Erin were already at a table, plates of fruit and pastries in front of them. Laura’s bodies sat side by side, identical posture, both picking at a croissant. Erin had her feet up on another chair, posture easier but not careless, her face calmer, though still guarded. She looked at Andy as he came in, a little smile twitching at the corners of her mouth—****, but there.

Claire pointed to a chair. Andy sat.

“Sorry about last night,” he said, voice low. “The curfew snuck up on me. Should have told you about it.” He looked at Laura, but then at Erin and Claire too, making it clear the apology was for all of them.

Erin shrugged, the movement making her breasts sway in a way that would have been distracting if Andy hadn’t seen it a thousand times already. “It’s fine,” she said, and this time it sounded like she almost meant it. “I just… we were worried, that’s all. Give… give us a heads-up next time.”

Andy nodded.

Claire held up a note towards Laura: Nothing broke. We’re still here.

Laura laughed shakily. Relief loosened something in her shoulders.

They ate in near silence for a while, the only sound the clink of cutlery and the faint hum of the hotel’s HVAC. Andy watched the three women, searching for signs of fracture. Instead, what he saw was something more complex: Erin and Claire passing jam and butter back and forth, Laura’s two selves slowly relaxing, the lines at the edges of her eyes smoothing. Andy watched the small repairs happening in real time—no forgiveness speeches, no absolution.

Eventually, Erin leaned forward. “Courtesy rule,” she said, practical. “If you’re going to use the key, let us know. Not for permission. Just… context.”

Laura nodded immediately. “Yes. Of course.”

Andy nodded too. “That’s fair.”

Erin’s gaze lingered on him a fraction longer. Then she let it go, turning to Laura with a softer gaze. “You good?”

Laura nodded. “Better.”

“Good,” said Erin. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. If you don’t want to. We've all been through rough transformations.” She gestured to her own body: forcibly naked, green, with gravity-defying breasts. Andy saw the weight of that offer. For all of Erin’s bluster and bravado, she’d always been the first to extend an olive branch, even to people she didn’t trust. Maybe especially to them.

Laura managed a smile—awkward, but sincere. “Thank you,” she said, both voices perfectly in sync.

Claire, meanwhile, had already started writing in her notebook. She finished a line, then tore it out and handed it to Andy.

It read: We are adapting.

He smiled, then passed it back, underlining the “we.”

After breakfast, they stood in a little knot outside the dining room, the day’s agenda uncertain. Erin stretched, yawned, and announced she was going for a run—she looked at Laura, then Claire, and with a flick of her eyes invited them to join, but Laura shook her heads. “I want to walk for a while,” she said. “Just think.”

Erin nodded, then shot Andy a look, as if to say, keep an eye on her. Then she loped off down the hall, long stride eating up the floor.

Claire lingered for a moment, then walked up to Andy, stood on tiptoes, grabbed his shirt with both hands and pulled him down enough that she could give him a peck on the lips, bright, easy. She patted his cheek affectionately, huge blue eyes staring at him, then she pirouetted on her feet and padded away with a little wave of her hand.

When it was just Andy and Laura—both of her—left, he felt the gravity change again, the air thick with unspoken everything.

“I really didn’t mean to stay all night,” Laura said, voices low. “I just… it felt so safe. I forgot to be scared for a while.”

Andy felt his throat go tight. “I’m glad it did,” he said. “You’ve been carrying a lot. You deserved a place where you could set it down, even for a few hours.”

The left Laura smiled, but the right one just looked at the floor. “I wish I could do more for you,” she said. “I wish I didn’t make things harder.”

Andy reached for her hand, squeezed it. “You’re not making anything harder,” he said carefully. “You’re just in the middle of learning how to be here again. All of us are.”

Laura nodded, then looked out the window, her gaze distant but not empty. “I know it’s going to take time,” she said. “And I know I’m not… done being jealous. Or angry, or afraid.” She swallowed. “But I think I want to try anyway.”

Andy felt it settle in his chest—not relief, exactly, but something sturdier. “I want to try too,” he said.

They stood there for a minute, two, maybe more. Then Laura’s bodies, moving in perfect sync, turned and walked down the hall toward the inner gardens. Andy let them go, watching the retreating forms—two silhouettes, but one soul—and felt a weird, hopeful ache in his chest.

He felt the bond stretch, not painfully, just enough to tell him she was still steady, still breathing through the fear instead of letting it swallow her.

He thought about the night before—about Emily leaving quietly so she wouldn’t take more than she felt allowed. He thought about Erin, holding herself together in the lobby with a discipline born of love and insecurity tangled too tightly to pull apart. He thought about Claire, already adapting, already stitching the group back together without asking for credit.

He understood that needing him didn’t mean the same thing for any of them—and that didn’t make any of it lesser. He didn’t have to choose who mattered more. He just had to keep showing up, honestly, even when it was uncomfortable.

The morning was already warm, and sunlight poured through the tall windows of the corridor, making the world look, for a few minutes at least, like it was still possible to start over.

Andy followed the path toward the gardens, hoping it might lead him somewhere he’d never been.

The inner gardens were supposed to be serene, but for Andy the air still felt charged with the residue of breakfast—not tension exactly, but aftermath. He followed a flagstone path flanked by glossy hibiscus and riotous swathes of blue and gold poppies, the colors blurring at the edges as his mind replayed the morning in fragments: Laura’s doubled voice, Erin’s careful restraint, Claire’s quiet competence in steering everyone through the wreckage without calling it that.

He didn’t feel panicked. That, in itself, was new.

He’d promised himself, after everything, that he wouldn’t let history repeat. That he’d be careful with the harem, careful with the feelings and wants of every woman in it. The night in the Suite hadn’t broken that resolve. If anything, it had clarified it. The conversation he had had with Laura, however painful it had been in the moment, had been necessary, for everyone’s sake. He knew that he didn’t—couldn’t—love everyone the same way. The shape of his love for each woman was different, and couldn’t be measured in exactly equal time given to all. He would spend more time with some, then with others. The imbalance he felt wasn’t proof of failure; it was a reminder that this would require constant adjustment, not one clean decision.

Still, the fear lingered at the edges. Too much shared past with Laura. Too little shared present with everyone else. Not a verdict—just a risk. One he’d have to keep choosing not to fall into.

He passed through a tunnel of jasmine and paused beneath a wrought-iron arch, blinking up at the soft green haze of the canopy overhead. He wondered how this place looked to the others—not in metaphor, but in practice. What felt welcoming, what felt curated, what felt like it belonged to someone else already. Integration wasn’t a single gesture or a speech; it was a thousand small, visible choices, made when it would be easier not to.

He wanted Laura to have a place here that wasn’t built on exception or nostalgia. He wanted Erin and Claire to feel the ground under their feet stay solid. He didn’t know yet how to do all of that at once—but for the first time, that uncertainty didn’t feel like doom. It felt like work.

He exhaled, letting the thought settle instead of spiral.

Movement flashed at the edge of his vision—a sudden, colorful disruption. A half-dozen arms, all laden with baskets, garlands, and what looked like two separate blankets, came barreling toward him at full speed, intent and unapologetic. Andy barely had time to brace before Emi arrived.

“Andy!” Emi’s voice was a rush of wind and excitement. “I’ve been looking for you since dawn!”

He barely had time to brace before Emi’s six arms enveloped him. Two baskets full of flowers and a stack of checked cloths were deposited in his arms, and a burst of petals exploded up his nose. Emi’s hair was wild, frizzed out from humidity, and her eyes sparkled above the stacks of stuff she carried. “I was supposed to get these to Dawn, but she said she’d be late and also something about a yoga fire drill? So, we’re going to take them instead!” She beamed, four hands already arranging his load, and another two grabbing his wrist and steering him with giddy ****.

Andy laughed, startled out of his reverie. “I think you’ve single-handedly depleted the entire island’s flower population,” he said.

Emi waggled her brows. “It’s called thematic investment.” She stopped, two of her hands settling the basket’s handle more securely in the crook of his elbow. “Are you okay?” she asked, the tone sudden and gentle.

Andy tried to find a version of the truth that didn’t sound dramatic. “Just… rough breakfast.”

Emi nodded, understanding more than he’d said. “It’s the Laura thing, huh?”

He tried to make light: “You mean the ‘having two of her now’ thing?”

She grinned. “I mean, if anyone could handle being two people, it’d be Laura.”

He snorted. “Or be totally overwhelmed by it.”

Emi shrugged, her arms rippling in a way that was both absurd and beautiful. “She’ll adjust,” Emi said. “If anyone can, she will. And, you know. She has you.”

Andy didn’t have a good answer to that, so he let himself be led onward. Emi had a way of making even the most awkward transitions seem effortless, as if her energy could outpace any anxiety. It was hard to reconcile Emi today with the dreamy, absent-minded girl who had arrived on the beach, that first day, but Andy was glad for the change. She'd come back to herself.

As they rounded the corner near the koi pond, Emi paused and turned, all six arms lifting, palms outward. “I want to show you something,” she said, suddenly serious. “Will you come?”

He glanced down at his arms, still full of baskets, then back at her. “I mean, I’m not going to make it very far without your help.”

Emi’s smile flashed, brilliant and real. “That’s what I wanted to hear!” She seized his shoulder, and together they darted toward the far end of the garden, Emi’s steps light and barely touching the ground, as if she’d been waiting her whole life to do this exact thing.

They were halfway across the garden when Andy glanced back.

At the edge of the path, beneath the shadow of a climbing rose, Laura’s two bodies stood side by side. She wasn’t staring so much as waiting, her posture held with deliberate stillness. There was want in her gaze, yes—but more than that, there was restraint. The visible effort of someone choosing not to reach for what they wanted most.

Andy felt the bond tug—not a demand, not a plea, just awareness. I see you. I’m still here. He lifted a hand in a small wave, unsure whether it was enough.

Laura hesitated, then both of her mouths curved into the faintest smile. A second later, she turned—cleanly, decisively—and disappeared down a side path.

The path forked ahead, and Emi steered him onto the narrower branch. The world behind them faded, and the air grew cooler, full of the scent of moss and soft, living things. For the first time since waking, Andy felt something like excitement.

The path forked ahead, and Emi steered him onto the narrower branch. The world behind them faded, and the air grew cooler, full of the scent of moss and soft, living things. Andy felt something like excitement, thrumming through Emi's lithe frame, alive in the air around her. It made him smile, buoyed him.

The door to the Forest of Beginnings had once been a black door in a side corridor, but now it pulsed with the faint, luminous blue of an open portal. The moment Andy stepped through, the world shifted: sound dimmed, air thickened, light changed from gold to perpetual violet twilight. The ground was springy underfoot, grass curling in perfect logarithmic spirals, each blade shot through with veins of glowing color. The trees were columns of glass, not cold but alive, their trunks refracting all the hues of the setting sun, canopy a fractal web far overhead.

Emi was ahead of him, already several steps in, and Andy realized instantly that she was different here. In the perpetual dusk, her skin picked up the light and shimmered like opal. Her hair, cut into a bob, moved in soft waves, but it was her arms that arrested him: two carried a picnic basket and a rolled-up blanket; two more held a thick sketchbook and a jar of what looked like firefly honey; the last two were empty, except for the hand that never let go of his.

They walked in silence for a while, Emi’s footsteps leaving trails of blue and green phosphorescence that pulsed and faded, only to return brighter with each step. She moved with a kind of choreography, six arms all working independently but never awkward, and Andy had the fleeting thought that this must be what it was like to dance with a benevolent octopus.

“I missed this,” Emi said. Her voice was a breeze, light and clear, instantly dampening the low drone of doubt that had been building in his skull.

He squeezed her hand. “I did, too. It’s… different now.”

She nodded, and for a moment the old shyness crept over her. “It’s supposed to be. That’s the point.” She looked back at him, eyes so dark in the twilight that the whites glowed by contrast. “It’s growing all the time, you know? Each time I come back, it’s better.”

He looked around, trying to pick out the differences. He didn’t know that places made by the Contestants could change on their own: certainly, as far as he knew, The 88 Club or the Walk of Remembrance hadn’t changed since their construction. But Emi was right. The undergrowth was thicker, richer. Mosses glowed in broad patches, and flowers erupted from the glassy trunks at regular intervals, blooms the size of his hand, many of them bioluminescent. Small, winged things flitted through the air, each one trailing a comet of colored light. There were sculptures made of glass, here the glass fox he remembered, there a bunny, and not far, a glass statue of Harper’s wife Skye (he remembered her from the party), glowing with an inner fire.

Andy noticed, too, that the trees weren’t just the same repeating form anymore. Here and there, a trunk twisted into a spiral, or spread into three or four branches low to the ground. Some of the colors were off, too—one set of trees had little clusters of pale yellow flowers that reminded him of Claire’s hair, another had a trunk that subtly changed color from top to bottom, gold to pink, like a mood ring. And wasn’t that shade of green, over there, the same mint as Erin’s skin?

He said as much, and Emi smiled, all six arms wrapping tight around the supplies in her grip.

“I started noticing it after the last Challenge,” she said. “When you brought Laura back.” She spoke the name softly, but without pain, just the gravity of it. “I thought it would stay just like I remembered it, but it keeps picking up pieces of everyone. Little by little, it turns into something new.”

Andy felt a shiver up his back. “Do you mind?” he asked. “That it’s not just yours anymore?”

Emi stopped, pivoted on one foot, and turned to face him with all the deliberate grace of a dancer. She placed the picnic basket on the ground, set the blanket down, and then drew him into a hug with all six arms at once.

“No,” she whispered, and her voice vibrated against his skin. “I love it.” She broke the embrace, two hands still holding his while the other four pointed, in sequence, at the details: the odd flowers, the colored moss, the way one tree’s upper boughs drooped just a little, as if listening.

Andy followed her gaze and realized how many details he’d missed. A patch of grass was cobalt blue, reminding him of the Sam’s hair. Near the edge of a clearing, a mossy stump emerged from the blue grass and glowed faintly orange, the color of Liesa’s hair at sunset. The deeper in they walked, the more obvious it became: the Forest was becoming a scrapbook, a living memory of everyone who mattered.

He turned to Emi, who was looking at him with all six arms folded across her chest, a mock-serious glare barely masking the joy underneath.

“You did this,” she said. “You brought all of them together. Even here.”

He blushed, then covered by shrugging. “I just got lucky. It was supposed to be a dumb game, and now it’s…” He gestured, not sure what word could capture the richness of the moment. Emi just smiled and grabbed his hand again, leading him deeper into the woods.

After a short walk, they reached a clearing. The air here was thinner, easier to breathe, and the ground sloped up into a small mound ringed by trees. Each trunk had something carved into it—a glowing set of names, some in blocky capitals, others in looping cursive. He recognized them, one by one: Emi, Laura, Claire, Erin, Marissa, Riley, Norah, and a half-dozen others, all glowing with the faintest light.

In the very center of the mound stood a tree that dwarfed the others, its trunk thick and clear as a river’s ice, branches stretching so high they blurred into the night sky. At eye level, a knot of bark pulsed with white and gold. Andy’s name was carved there, surrounded by a whorl of tiny, luminous hearts.

He stared, dumbstruck.

Emi stepped beside him, four hands on her hips, two brushing her hair behind her ear. “I made that one for you,” she said, and the pride in her voice was so fierce it almost hurt.

He reached out, touching the surface. It was cool and dry, but as his fingers traced the letters, the wood glowed a little brighter, as if responding to his presence.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted.

“Then don’t say anything,” Emi replied, gentle. “Just know it’s yours, too.”

They stood in silence, the kind that hummed with meaning, as the stars in the glassy sky began to thicken. It was only then that Andy realized how many stars there were—thousands, maybe millions, some clustered into wild galaxies, others drifting alone. The more he looked, the more color he found: deep blue nebulae, clouds of rose and gold, and streaks of pure white light like veins in marble.

He looked back at Emi, and for a moment, it was like seeing her again for the first time: skin that shimmered in the darkness, hair catching the light, six arms folding and unfolding with absent grace. She looked a little taller, her chest a little fuller, her hair a little more lustrous. She was so at home here, so effortless in her beauty, that Andy wondered how anyone could ever think of her as “ordinary.”

He pulled her close, unable to resist.

She melted into him, four arms snaking around his waist and two cupping his face. She smelled faintly of honey, of midnight flowers, of the cool ozone that lingered in the air after a thunderstorm. He kissed her, soft at first, then deeper, feeling the way she shuddered in his arms. Her lips tasted of wild berries and something sweeter, a note of warmth that went straight to his chest.

When they parted, she giggled, her voice layered with delight and relief. “You always do that,” she teased. “Right when I think you’re about to say something brilliant, you just kiss me instead.”

He grinned. “I figure I’ll never top your words, so I use what I’ve got.”

She considered, then nodded, as if this were an unimpeachable argument. “That’s fair,” she allowed.

They sat at the foot of the tree, Emi unfurling the picnic blanket with two arms while another two unpacked the baskets and the last two fluffed the moss around their little island of comfort. Andy lay back, staring at the branches overhead, and Emi curled up next to him, one head resting on his shoulder, the rest of her arrayed around him in a sunburst of limbs and warmth.

They didn’t need to speak. The forest buzzed quietly—sounds of distant bells, the hush of wind, the occasional call of a bird Andy had never heard before. He felt the steady thump of Emi’s heart through her shoulder, and the slower, steadier pulse of his own as she ran her fingers through his hair.

For a long time, Andy just breathed. For a long time, it was enough.

Eventually, Emi shifted and propped herself up on an elbow. Her six arms formed a perfect halo around her as she looked down at him, the glassy sky a starfield behind her head.

“Do you like it here?” she asked.

He nodded. “I love it.”

She bit her lip, uncertain. “Arabella said we could use what we already made as our sanctuaries, for the mini-challenge. It’s not really finished,” she admitted. “I don’t know that it ever will be, but… I wasn’t sure if it was good enough.”

Andy reached up, brushed his thumb along her cheek. “You made a whole world,” he said. “That’s more than good enough.”

She giggled, bright and sharp, then leaned in and kissed him again. This time, her arms all wrapped tight, cocooning him in an impossible embrace. The sensation was dizzying, but never claustrophobic—just the right amount of too much, like a perfect bite of the best dessert you’d ever tasted.

He pulled her into his lap, feeling the weight of her, the warmth, the gentle tickle of her hair on his skin. She laughed again, then tangled her hands in his hair and tugged, playful but commanding.

“You’re different, too, you know,” she said. “Since Laura came back. You’re more… you.”

Andy blinked, caught off guard. “Is that a good thing?”

She nodded, serious for a moment. “It’s the best thing.”

He let the words wash over him, unsure what to do with the feeling except let it settle. Andy allowed himself to believe it. They sat together as the sky deepened, stars spinning overhead, the forest alive and always changing around them.

When Emi finally let him go, she did so slowly, as if **** to leave the warmth. She pulled out the sketchbook and showed him a page, filled with drawings of the women in the harem. They were rendered not as pinups or cartoons, but as explorers, heroes, sometimes mythic creatures: Claire curled up in a tower of books, Dawn leading a parade of small animals, Marissa with a stethoscope and a crown.

Andy pointed at a sketch of Emi herself, six arms cradling a universe of tiny stars. “That’s you?” he asked.

She blushed, then nodded. “It’s how I want to be, anyway.” She hesitated. “Is it okay, to want to be that?”

He nodded, certain. “It’s perfect.”

She smiled, the kind of smile that lit up the whole clearing. “I think I could get used to this,” she said, the old wistfulness gone from her voice.

“Me too,” he said, and meant it.

It was only when the stars overhead brightened to a new, impossible shade of blue that Emi tugged Andy to his feet.

“There’s something else,” she said, excitement bubbling up in her voice. “You have to see it.”

She led him, not by the hand but by all six arms, down a winding path that twisted deeper into the woods. The light grew stranger, the glass trees denser and taller, their trunks humming at a pitch so high it was almost felt instead of heard. They passed through a stand of trees whose flowers glowed with the same shade of pink as Emily’s hair, a low thicket that reeked of mint and sweet sap, and finally emerged into another clearing.

Here, the trees formed a perfect ring, and in the center stood a low, crystalline table. On it, Emi had arranged an elaborate spread: tiny cakes, fruit that shimmered like gems, two glasses that sparkled with a drink Andy didn’t recognize.

He turned to Emi, question on his lips, but she shook her head. “It’s a dessert table. For you. For us.” She gestured at the feast. “I wanted to make something that lasted, even if the rest of this goes away someday.”

He sat, and she poured the drinks, her six arms a ballet of movement, never clumsy, always in sync. They toasted, and Andy tasted the wine—cold and sweet, with an aftertaste like starlight. It was surreal, but perfect, and for a moment he wondered if he’d ever really need to wake up.

They ate in silence, savoring each bite. The fruit burst with flavor, the cakes melted on his tongue. Emi watched him, eyes never leaving his, searching for any sign of disappointment.

He found none. “It’s amazing,” he said, mouth full.

She grinned, then licked her own fingers, a little shy, a little delighted. “I hoped you’d like it,” she said. “I wanted to give you something that mattered.”

Andy looked at her, at the impossible world she’d created, at the way she glowed in this light, and wondered how anyone could ever doubt her.

He reached across the table, all other thoughts forgotten. “Come here.”

She did, and this time the kiss was slow, gentle, a long exhale of gratitude and hope. Her arms wrapped around him. They held each other as the Forest hummed with new life. Neither of them needed to say a word.

It was only after the last bit of cake had disappeared and the stars began to burn even brighter overhead, that Emi said, “Do you want to see something else?”

Andy nodded, and Emi sprang to her feet, wiping her hands on her skirt. She looked up at the massive tree at the center of the clearing, her eyes glinting with secret intent. “Let’s go,” she said, and before he could answer, four arms were tugging him after her, the other two gathering up the sketchbook and picnic debris with casual efficiency.

The trunk of the tree was smooth and cool, a pale blue that glowed brighter wherever Emi touched it. At first Andy assumed they would just lean against the roots or maybe sit at the base, but Emi reached up, found a handhold, and began climbing. All six hands made short work of the ascent, her legs pushing off with a dancer’s power. She didn’t so much climb as float, her arms and feet working in an elegant logic all their own.

Andy watched, a little awestruck, as she reached down for him. “You coming?” she called, the tease in her voice warming the air.

He grabbed the lowest branch with one hand and pulled himself up with a fluid motion that surprised even him, muscles coiling and uncoiling with startling efficiency. Emi's eyes widened slightly as he bounded up three more branches without pause, his body moving with a predator's grace that seemed to defy gravity. When she reached for his wrist, intending to help, he instead steadied her with a casual grip that could have supported them both with a single finger.

The higher they went, the more the world changed: the glass bark sang with a faint, harmonious vibration, and the leaves above were not leaves at all, but a lacework of radiant, membrane-thin petals, each one shifting hue as the wind moved through them.

At the first sturdy fork, Emi perched and patted the branch beside her. “Best seat in the house,” she announced, and when Andy joined her, the wood seemed to mold to his shape, the surface as smooth and yielding as water.

From here, the entire forest unfurled below them. Trails of glowing moss wound like rivers through the undergrowth, and in the distance, the glass trunks of other trees caught and fractured the sky’s light into a prism of motion. There was nothing but forest in every direction—no sign of the hotel, no sign of the outside world.

But above, the stars.

The sky was a cathedral of light, nebulae in rose and turquoise and gold swirling around dense fields of blue and white. Andy had never seen so many stars, not even on the rare camping trips his father had dragged him to in the upper Midwest. The longer he stared, the more order he found in the chaos: great arms of galaxies, bright ribbons of stars, and even, if he let his eyes drift, patterns within the patterns, each one coalescing and then dissolving into something new.

Emi followed his gaze, then pointed up with one long finger. “There,” she said. “Do you see that cluster? With the three bright ones in a row?”

He squinted. “Looks like Orion’s belt, but the rest is wrong.”

She grinned. “That’s the Nursery. Chloe’s. If you look around it, you can kind of see the shape—like a cradle? That’s what I was trying to do.”

He looked again, and—yes, there it was, a kind of cosmic crib cupping the three stars.

“And over there?” Emi continued, pointing east. “That wavy line? That’s Marissa’s piano. I tried to make the keys line up, but it’s kind of hard with stars.”

He laughed, but looked for it, and sure enough: a bright, wavering arc, with a line of blue-white points along one side, like the keys of a grand piano caught mid-glissando.

“What about Erin’s?” he asked.

Emi leaned against his side, four arms circling his waist while the other two traced lines in the sky. “That one’s harder,” she admitted. “But if you look for the green star, and then the red one above it, you’ll see the shape of a garden spade, with the handle running up into that long, thin cluster.” She smiled, pleased. “I thought she’d like that better than a flower. It felt more… her.”

Andy followed her directions, and there it was: a spade, curving up to a handle that split at the top, as if ready to dig into the stars themselves.

“And Claire’s?” he asked, almost afraid to see how Emi had mapped the catgirl’s brain onto the heavens.

“Easy,” Emi said. “See the spiral over there? That’s a galaxy, technically, but if you look right in the center, there’s a little cluster of stars that’s almost a perfect hexagon. That’s her library, the stacks all winding in and around, infinite.”

He saw it, and it was beautiful—dense, luminous, not orderly but undeniably intentional, like the blueprint for a mind too complex to ever be finished.

Andy felt a lump rise in his throat, a sense of awe he’d not let himself feel in years. Emi, oblivious to his sudden quiet, pointed to a dozen more: Liesa’s easel, Myra’s fox-tail nebula, Sam’s blue-star anchor, Riley’s comet with the two-toned hair streak, Dawn’s cluster that formed a sun with pair of ears, Emily’s glowing trail of pink through a field of gold.

After each, she would look to Andy, checking his expression, making sure he saw what she saw.

Finally, she fell silent. The world was very still, the only sound the wind through the crystal petals and the faint hum of the tree beneath them.

Emi looked at him, her six arms all holding on in some way—two around his waist, two on his shoulder, two hands cradling his own.

“And you?” he asked, voice thick.

She hesitated, then laughed softly. “I didn’t pick a single one for me. I just like making the shapes.” She shrugged, a little shy. “But there is one I like best.” She pointed straight up, and Andy followed her finger.

There, at the zenith, was a constellation shaped like an open hand, palm facing out, fingers spread wide. It was perfect—every knuckle, every line. He realized, in that moment, that it was Emi’s own hand, mapped into the sky.

“That’s yours,” she said, whispering now. “The one holding everything together.”

He turned to her, unable to keep the emotion off his face. “You really think that’s what I do?”

She met his eyes, serious. “Nobody else could. Not like you.” She hesitated, then, with one set of fingers, touched his chest, right above his heart. “It’s not about winning, or getting the most stars, or any of that. It’s just…” She trailed off, unsure of how to say it.

Andy took her hand, held it against his chest. He pressed his forehead to hers, felt the heat of her skin, the softness of her hair, the impossible comfort of her six-armed embrace. For a long minute, they just breathed together.

Below, the forest glowed with gentle color, every tree a living memory. Above, the constellations Emi had invented burned with impossible brightness. And between them, the two of them sat, not as a master and his girl, not as a harem prince and a starry-eyed dreamer, but as equals—flawed, unfinished, together.

Emi closed her eyes, and Andy did too. He let the peace settle, let her universe hold them both.

The branch was so perfectly molded to their bodies that Andy half expected it to dissolve into air and drop them gently to the moss below. But time didn’t work the way it was supposed to here—each minute stretched out, dreamlike, and then, without warning, snapped forward with the twitch of a finger.

It was Emi who broke the quiet. She shifted her weight, six arms cinched around his waist or fanned out behind her for balance, and said, “I’ve been thinking about adding more animals. Not just the glass birds, but maybe real ones. I think the forest would like that.” She twisted in place, balancing on two feet and two hands, and pointed at the horizon. “There’s a whole part over there I haven’t filled in yet. I want to make it a place where things can just… show up. Not be planned.”

Andy smiled. “You want it to be a real ecosystem.”

Emi laughed, a soft bell sound. “Maybe a little. But it’s not just for me, you know? I want it to be for everyone. Even after… well, after all this, I want someone to find it and think, ‘Wow, I wonder who made this place for us?’”

Andy thought about the centuries of blue-rose petals, the rooms in the Hotel that had outlived their makers. He thought about the girls who had passed through Arabella’s program, and wondered if any of them ever got to leave something as permanent as this.

Emi must have sensed his mood, because she ducked her head, a little bashful. “Sorry. I know it’s silly. It’s just a dream. It won’t last.”

Andy turned, pulled her closer, and felt the hum of her skin against his. “It’s not silly,” he said. “It’s… it’s beautiful.” He hesitated, then added: “I didn't have a chance to tell you this, but you showed up in Laura’s memories, after she… came back. From the visions in the Garden.”

Emi blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”

He thought about it, how to explain the overlapping memories that Laura had discussed. “She said there was a woman with many arms, who told her I was waiting for her. And that I loved her, and missed her every day. I think that was you.”

Emi stared at him, eyes wide. “That can’t be—”

But Andy shook his head. “No, I think it is. When you went into the Garden of Glass, and you found her there—maybe it was more real than you realized. I think you actually talked to her spirit, or whatever was left of her. I think that’s how she found her way back. I may have brought her back, and everyone may have softened the memories, but I think...” He paused. "I think you found her first."

The idea hung between them for a long moment. Emi’s hands curled and uncurled in his lap, as if she wasn’t sure which ones belonged to her and which ones belonged to the memory.

“She said she’d never forget,” Andy added, soft. “She made a promise to you, to be better, this time.”

Emi swallowed. Her throat worked, and for the first time since he’d known her, she looked like she was about to cry—not out of pain, but out of a bewildered, radiant joy. “I thought it was just a dream,” she said, voice so small Andy could barely hear it. “I thought— I was always so sad I couldn’t do more for her.”

He hugged her, and her arms, all of them, squeezed tight. For a while, they just breathed together, Emi’s tears wetting the shoulder of his shirt, her body trembling with the effort to keep the sound in. He didn’t rush her; he let her feel every bit of it.

After a time, she sniffled and leaned back, dabbing her eyes with the soft pad of a palm. “Sorry. I’m okay. It’s just… I’m really happy. I can’t believe I helped.”

He looked at her, really looked, and thought there was no one he knew with a bigger heart.

“She’s doing okay,” he said, after a while. “It’s just—she’s still figuring it out. Being here, after so long. Having to share.”

Emi nodded. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for her. Sixteen years is a lot to lose.” She glanced at him, searching his face for something. “How are you, with it?”

He hesitated. The truth was, he didn’t know how to do it yet, not fully—loving a resurrected memory, loving the women in his harem, not wanting to let anyone down. But he wanted to try. “I want to do right by her,” he said. “And by you. By all of you. It’s just—there’s no playbook for this.”

Emi smiled, a little wry. “You mean there’s not a chapter in the handbook for ‘how to love twelve girls at once and not break any of their hearts’?”

He laughed, but it came out ragged. “Nope.”

She traced a slow line down his arm with two hands, while the others fussed with the hem of her skirt. “You know what I think?” she said, after a moment. “I think we all know you’ll have favorites. That’s normal. Even if you try to be fair, you’re still human.” She looked at him, dead serious. “Before Laura came back, everyone knew Claire and Erin were the favorites. That’s not a secret.”

Andy winced. “Did that bother you?”

Emi shook her head. “Not really. I mean, it stung a little, but only because it’s hard not to compare yourself. I’m just happy to be here. With you. With them. It’s more than I thought I’d ever get.” She ducked her head. “It’s not about winning, for me. Not really.”

He was silent for a while, chewing on the truth of it.

Emi snuggled closer, burrowing into his side, her arms wrapping around his waist, his chest, his shoulders, every part of him that would fit. “Don’t feel bad about it,” she murmured. “Just… do what you can. That’s all we want.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I worry about the points,” he admitted. “Myra and Laura are so far behind. Riley too, if I’m honest. If I don’t help them, they’ll never catch up before the final round.”

Emi giggled, a bright spark in the gloom. “Myra is easy. She likes you, and she’s not good at hiding it. Just give her some attention and she’ll melt.” She paused, thoughtful. “Riley is harder, but she’s always been like that. You’ll just have to keep trying.”

Andy frowned. “And Laura?”

Emi’s face softened. “She shouldn’t have to compete at all. But if she does, you should just… be with her. The same way you always were.” She touched his cheek, soft and sincere. “Nobody’s going to blame you for wanting her. Least of all me.”

Andy let the words settle, then turned and pressed his lips to her hairline, just above the arch of her ear. She shivered, and her hands tightened around him.

“I love you,” he said, voice thick.

Emi beamed, tears forgotten. “I love you, too. All of you.”

They stayed that way a long while, until the stars overhead cycled through a dozen colors, and the moss beneath them felt as warm as a blanket.

He almost fell asleep on the moss before the first grape hit his neck.

Andy opened his eyes, startled, to see Emi perched on a boulder at the edge of the glade, legs tucked under her like a mischievous cat. She grinned, a devilish spark lighting her eyes. In three of her hands, she held perfect ammunition—fat purple grapes, plucked from the bowl on their abandoned picnic blanket. Before he could react, three more grapes followed, fired in perfect sequence, each one smacking him on the arm, chest, or cheek.

He put his hands up in surrender. “Hey! Food fights are illegal in at least three states.”

Emi only grinned wider, her six arms cocked and ready. “You’re not in a state anymore. You’re in my world now.”

She lobbed another barrage, this one aimed for maximum chaos. Andy dodged, but not well, and ended up taking a grape to the forehead. It bounced off and rolled into the moss, trailing juice like a comet.

He laughed, delighted despite himself, and snatched up a fallen glass log as a makeshift shield. “You’re going to run out of grapes before I run out of tree.”

“Wanna bet?” Emi crowed. Three arms snatched up more grapes, the other three hands building a hasty barricade from glass she literally summoned out of thin air.

A standoff ensued. The forest, sensing the shift in energy, seemed to brighten—petals opening wider, the moss glowing a little greener, even the birds chirping louder as if rooting for their favorite side. Andy made a dash for the boulder, zigzagging between showers of grape-shot, but Emi was ready: two arms pelted him from the left, two from the right, and the last two covered her eyes in exaggerated horror at his approach.

He tackled her—not hard, but with enough momentum to tumble them both into a heap in the soft grass. Grapes spilled everywhere, rolling into crevices and popping under their bodies. Emi shrieked with laughter, her arms pinwheeling to keep her upright. Andy rolled to his side, breathless and giggling.

They lay there, the both of them, gasping in the aftermath. Emi had juice running down her chin; Andy’s shirt was blotched with purple. Above, the sky cycled from indigo to pink to turquoise, as if rewarding them for breaking the calm with a burst of color.

Andy looked at Emi—her hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a happiness so pure it made his heart ache. For a long time, he’d thought of love as something for two people, a binary star locked in orbit. But this, whatever this was, was different: it was a constellation, each point of light unique and beautiful, but brighter when joined with the others.

He reached for Emi’s hand—one of them, anyway—and squeezed. She squeezed back, all fingers wrapping tight.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he said, and meant it.

Emi giggled, then wiped a streak of grape juice from his cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

They lay like that, tangled in the moss and petals, the last few grapes squished between their sides. It was a mess, but a glorious one, and Andy wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

The Forest, alive with the memory of their laughter, glowed brighter still.