Centuries passed. The garden flourished, tended by humans, plastic soldiers, and light-figures together. The crystal had long dissolved into the soil, but its glow remained—in every flower, every leaf, every shared moment.
The Keeper, ancient now, sat beneath her favorite tree. A child approached—great-great-granddaughter of someone, though lineage mattered little anymore.
"Tell me the story again," the child begged. "About the first choice."
The old Keeper smiled. "Two soldiers on a bridge. One American. One Japanese. They could have fought. Instead, they chose."
"And then?"
"