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The basement smells like dust, old paper, and the faint memory of pizza grease. Mike notices it the moment he steps down the stairs, like his brain has been saving the scent just for this—just in case.
Everyone’s already there.
Lucas leans against the game table, arms crossed, trying to look normal and failing. Dustin won’t stop fidgeting with the edge of a D&D map that hasn’t been used in years. Max sits on the couch, quiet but watching everything, like she’s memorizing it all. Will stands closest to Mike, eyes soft, aching in that way that means he understands too much.
The lights are dim. The Christmas bulbs still hang along the wall, unplugged now, their colors dull with age.
Mike clears his throat.
“So,” he says, voice cracking immediately. “Guess this is it.”
No one laughs. No one jokes. And somehow, that hurts more than if they did.
“We were kids down here,” Mike continues, gesturing vaguely at the room. “We thought the biggest problem in the world was whether a Demogorgon had too many hit points.”
Dustin snorts, just a little. “It did have too many hit points.”
Mike smiles at that, then lets the smile fade. “But we grew up. And… I guess growing up means you don’t always get to stay.”
He looks at each of them—really looks. Lucas, who taught him what courage actually was. Max, who showed them how to keep going even when things break. Dustin, who never stopped believing in impossible things. Will, who survived the dark and still chose kindness.
“I don’t know what’s next,” Mike says. “But whatever happens… this—” he taps his chest “—this never goes away.”
Will steps forward and pulls him into a hug. Then Dustin. Then Lucas and Max, until it’s messy and awkward and full of quiet sobs that no one bothers to hide.
When they finally let go, the basement feels too big. Too empty.
Mike takes one last look around—and that’s when the floor drops out from under him.
Not physically. Not exactly.
Then the air shifts.
Not loud. Not violent.
Just wrong.
The basement stretches, the walls thinning like paper soaked in water. The lights flicker once—and then Mike is falling.
Again.
The void catches him like it remembers him.
Dark. Endless. Quiet in a way that presses against his chest.
“Mike.”
Her voice doesn’t echo. It doesn’t need to.
He turns.
Eleven stands there, already waiting.
Not surprised. Not afraid.
“You came,” he whispers.
She shakes her head gently. “No. I found you.”
He blinks. “What?”
She steps closer, the darkness bending around her like it knows her too well. “I’ve been watching. Every day.”
Mike’s breath stutters.
“I saw the basement,” she continues. “The bikes outside. The way Dustin talks with his hands. The way Lucas always looks back to make sure everyone’s following. Will still stands where you stand.”
Her eyes soften. “And you. You never stopped hoping.”
Mike’s voice breaks. “You shouldn’t have had to watch from here.”
“I wanted to,” she says simply. “It helped me remember who I was. Who I still am.”
The void trembles faintly, like it’s listening.
Mike steps closer. “El… you can’t stay tied to us like that. To me. You deserve a life that isn’t built around what you lost.”
She hesitates. “What if moving on means leaving you behind?”
He smiles—small, sad, sincere. “Then I’ll stay right here. Waiting. But you don’t have to.”
Tears well in her eyes. “I don’t want my past to disappear.”
“It won’t,” Mike says. “But it doesn’t get to decide your future anymore.”
She reaches out, gripping his hand like it might vanish. “You were my home.”
“And you were mine,” he replies. “But homes change. That doesn’t mean they weren’t real.”
The void begins to pull him back, gentle but firm.
Eleven’s grip tightens. “I’ll live,” she promises. “I’ll really live.”
“I know,” Mike says. “That’s why I can wait.”
She presses her forehead to his. “I was never alone. I was watching. And you were always there.”
As Mike fades into the darkness, he smiles.
And for the first time, the void doesn’t feel like a prison.
It feels like a promise.