In the wake of his sudden retreat, Calliope attempts something like empathy for the first time in her life and death. Although she can't fathom an absence of loneliness, doesn't understand friendship or being looked after or assured safety, she now sees her other self is allowed to consume the fruits of that existence into which she had been shaped. And while said existence, with all its pleasures and pains, will be barred from her comprehension forever, she knows that is a worthwhile thing to have. Even in the face of its ultimate irrelevancy to the greater good, perhaps. "I think I would have wanted that," she muses quietly, answering his earlier question half to herself.

But where does that leave her? This stranger holds the key to her fulfillment, too, and his final assurance hangs in the air like a threat. "I won't be free until she returns," she reminds him, the realization sharpening her voice to a bitter point. "If she lives now, she may die without ever serving her true purpose. Am I to wait another eternity, no longer even certain of my ultimate fate? What makes her more deserving of freedom than me, in your eyes?" It's more accusation than question, uttered at his indifferent back with a degree of fierceness that surprises even herself. Paradox Space can't be held accountable for her suffering, her unjust failure followed by endless empty waiting, and she had accepted that. Both her selves had sacrifices to make, both of them had roles to play. But now all that is in the hands of this stranger, this meddler, who presumes to risk all of creation for her weaker self's happiness, and his judgement can be questioned.