“Yeah. For another hour, maybe.”
A low hum built behind the treeline. Not thunder. Not a quinjet. It was deeper—like the planet itself groaning. The sky split. Not the snap. Something else. Orange and raw, spinning open like a wound reversing.
“Good.” Tony pulled out a folded piece of paper—hand-drawn, crayon, with a heart in the corner. Morgan’s. “She left this in my suit’s boot last week. Said it was for ‘repairing the big donut in the sky.’” He smiled, small and real. “Let’s go fix it.” avengers-endgame
Tony tilted his head toward the cabin. “She’s asleep?”
“One more fight,” Clint said.
Inside, Tony’s voice crackled from an old suit speaker. A hologram flickered—Morgan’s hand reaching for a helmet she’d never wear again. Pepper stood in the doorway, her back to the lake, but he knew she was watching him.
Clint nodded once. No speech. No grand vow. He just picked up his bow from the dock—the one he’d set down five years ago—and the string sang under his thumb. “Yeah
The lake stayed still. The cabin stayed dark. But the stars, for the first time in half a decade, looked like they were waiting for something to begin again.