They didn’t all wake up. Not really. Tinky Winky was the first to open his eyes fully. The hospital lights burned. Sterile. Blinding. A nurse gasped when he blinked. He couldn’t speak—his throat was dry, raw, like he hadn’t used it in years. He reached for the red bag on the side table. But it wasn’t there. Just a drawing. A crayon sketch of four colorful figures and a sun with a baby’s face. Someone had written in shaky handwriting: “You’re safe now.” He wasn’t so sure. Laa-Laa stirred in her bed three days later. She screamed when she saw herself in the mirror. Her arms were smaller. Her body, not her own. As if she'd regressed. A child again, but with the mind of someone older. She remembered the dance. The ball. The moment it rolled into the street. The car horn. Then silence. She curled into herself and whispered, “Did we escape? Or did we just… reset?” No one answered. Dipsy awoke during a thunderstorm. He tore out his IVs and ran. Doctors caught him in the hallway, sobbing and muttering: “He’s still there… He didn’t come with us…” Because Po didn’t wake up. Not in a hospital. Not in a bed. Not on Earth. She stayed behind. She stood alone in a silent Tubbyland. The hills were lifeless. The house was dark. The sky was empty—no Sun Baby. No periscopes. Just the soft buzz of nothingness. She walked the land, calling their names. Nothing answered but echoes. Then she found the mirror, broken at the base of the hill. Pieces of it still flickered with memory. Her reflection was distorted: a glowing-eyed figure with burnt edges. She was no longer tethered to the child she once was. She had become part of the system. And in the sky, a new light rose. But it wasn’t the Sun Baby. It was her. Her face. Smiling. Glowing. Watching. In the real world, monitors beeped beside a small hospital crib. Po's body was there. Brain dead. Machines keeping her heart beating. Doctors called her a miracle for surviving the fire. But they didn’t know her soul had chosen to stay. To become the new guardian. To watch over the other children who might arrive. Tinky Winky, Laa-Laa, and Dipsy were eventually adopted. They never spoke of what they saw. Not to adults. Not to each other. But sometimes, at night, when dreams flickered— They'd hear her voice: “Time for Tubby Bye-Bye…” And they'd wake with tears in their eyes. Missing the one they left behind.
