By the time theyāre done clearing up the last of the disaster, the sun is almost up.
On the bright side, the beach looks almost back to normal. Scottās always been a skilled builder; he tells Pearl that her terraforming abilities are second to none, too, and she has no choice but to believe him. Together theyāve managed to sweep the crater of their latest double-explosion back to being a mostly-intact cliff face and a slightly uneven sandy floor. If you hadnāt seen it before, you might be convinced that the Archipearlago had always looked this way.
Theyāve talked, too. Scott is still a little unsteady on his feet from the sudden influx of a second, a third lifetimeās worth of memories, and so as he digs and shifts and replaces he keeps asking scattered questions. Pearl answers everything she can as patiently as she can. Itās not exactly comfortable, shuffling back through the worst six weeks of her life to explain what the thing about the snow was, or why she used to wake up every morning to a sharp shooting pain in her heart, and what exactly that has to do with the fiery-haired figure heās never met before but who sits constant in both of their recollections like the souring aftertaste of a sweet drink... but itās necessary.
(And besides, Pearl wonāt back off from a little thing like reliving bad memories. Sheās not so weak. She can stomach it, and so she does.)
So theyāve made the beach look good as new again, and theyāve covered the gaps in Scottās still-raw memories, and as she kicks the last of the sand over a jutting spike of cobble she declares that enough to be getting on with.
Scottās reluctant to leave, of course. This guilt that heās become fixated on, the neverending well of remorse, has had him spontaneously apologising over and over again all night like he canāt stop himself from saying it whenever it pops back into his mind. Knowing everything he did and making sense of it must have made the compulsion even worse than before, because it feels like half the things he says are āsorryā. And he keeps looking back over at her, paws - hands - half-reaching like he wants something from her.
She figures it out before too long. These hugs arenāt exactly what sheād fantasised about at her lowest points in the old world, shivering and huddled up next to a half-starved wolfdog with a yellow collar, but theyāre better than anything she could have hoped for back then. At least Scott actually wants her now.
He says heās never going to abandon her like that again. That she deserves better, and that heāll be here to give it to her. That (and heās hesitant, here, but he says it anyway) he wants to be her best friend, properly this time.
Pearl would be a fool to not accept that offer.
(Sheās probably a fool either way, but at least like this sheās a fool with someoneās arms around her.)
But he does need to sleep, and so does she, and so they part with bittersweet smiles in the end. Pearl doesnāt take her eyes off of Scott until heās disappeared all the way round the side of the mountain.
Then she sits on the sand and she watches the rest of the sunrise.
The ocean is her only soundtrack. Its music is familiar, rhythmic and comforting - the same ebb and flow she heard each night before she left on her desperate attempt to shake off a man who only wanted closure. The same quiet shushing that lulled her to sleep more than once in the old world, cut off though they were from the wider expanse of the world. Sheād like to play, for old timesā sake, to an audience of nothing but the fish and the kelp and the coral.
Her guitarās in Gobland, though, and her bass and horn still tossed on the bed in that Chromian tavern room. Sheāll need to fetch those sooner rather than later.
The dogs are in Gobland too, which is maybe a more urgent concern than that; Pearl doesnāt want to make Sausage do any more hard work than he has to looking after her pups. Sheāll go get them first. As soon as she has a new house and a new bed - somewhere for them to settle.
Pearl stands up and goes to grab some of that extra cobblestone. Starter shack it is, then. Canāt be as ugly as Box.
The morning is bright and calm. The future feels clearer than ever.
