The fall was longer this time.
Aeon drifted through layers of velvet dark — not emptiness, but suffocation. Memories pulsed in the walls. They didn't belong to him, yet he felt them as if they were carved into his soul.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing in Room 528 of the Plaza Hotel.
Everything was quiet.
The wallpaper was faded but flawless. The lamps cast a warm golden glow, and the balcony doors stood open, the curtains fluttering like ghostly fingers in the breeze. Jazz played faintly from a record that hadn't turned in years.
And in the center of the room, Mal sat on the windowsill, her back to them, her feet dangling over the edge.
Cobb stood frozen in the doorway beside Aeon.
"No," Cobb breathed. "Not this again."
Aeon stepped slowly into the room. His eyes scanned the layout — elegant, inviting. Deceptively perfect.
"Is this the memory?" he asked.
"No," Cobb said, voice low. "It's the version I made to forget what really happened."
Mal didn't turn.
"I thought I'd never see you here again," she said softly.
Cobb took a step forward, hesitant. "Mal…"
"I'm not angry anymore," she said. "I understand now. You were afraid."
Cobb's breath caught. "You're not real."
She laughed gently. "What is real?"
Aeon turned his gaze to Cobb. "This version of her… it's been tampered with. It's not just your guilt holding her here."
Cobb nodded slowly. "I know. I can feel it too."
Mal finally turned.
She looked just like the woman Cobb had loved — luminous, fragile, eyes filled with soft longing.
But her smile didn't reach her eyes.
There was something else behind them.
Something old.
"You don't have to go back," she said. "You're free here. There's no pain. No regret."
Her voice was like silk wrapped around razors.
Cobb stared at her. "You already said that. You said it the night you jumped."
"I didn't jump," she said gently. "You let me fall."
The room darkened.
The window warped — stretching wider, the horizon outside turning crimson. Far below, the streets of the dream-city shifted, skyscrapers turning in place like gears in a watch.
Cobb staggered back.
Aeon moved closer, placing himself between Cobb and the window.
"You're not her," he said quietly.
Mal tilted her head. "I remember you now."
Her voice distorted.
"You were there. With the fire. With the child."
Aeon stiffened.
A flicker — the balcony became a hospital bed, then a cradle, then a mirror.
For a split second, Aeon saw his daughter's eyes reflected in Mal's face.
"You lost her," Mal whispered. "You left her behind, just like he left me."
Cobb dropped to his knees. "Stop."
"Don't you want to see her again?" she cooed. "We can make her real. Together."
The room trembled.
Aeon's fists clenched. "This isn't grief. This is manipulation."
"She was never whole," Mal whispered, her voice suddenly a chorus. "Neither were you."
The record skipped.
The lightbulbs burst, one by one.
Mal's form began to unravel — shadows peeling from her shoulders, stretching toward Cobb.
He knelt there, shaking, his eyes locked on her.
"I told her she wasn't real," he whispered. "But I was the one who believed the lie."
Aeon knelt beside him, voice low.
"Then tell her the truth. Now."
Cobb's eyes welled with tears.
He looked up.
And finally said the words:
"I let you go."
The Shadow screamed.
Mal's form buckled — distorted — then shattered like porcelain dropped from height.
The room convulsed.
Aeon grabbed Cobb by the arm.
"Hold on."
A wind ripped through the room — the memory disintegrating as the dream collapsed.
The balcony vanished.
The floor buckled.
And they fell — not down, but through.
As the noise of the dying dream faded, Aeon looked back one last time.
In the broken window, something watched him.
A figure, faceless, outlined in smoke.
It raised one hand in mock farewell.
Then the dream closed.