diff --git a/writing/post-self/motes/005.md b/writing/post-self/motes/005.md
index 76931705..427318e1 100644
--- a/writing/post-self/motes/005.md
+++ b/writing/post-self/motes/005.md
@@ -4,7 +4,7 @@ She stopped playing because she had been out with some friends, some of the othe
 
 She stopped playing because, as she slowly pushed herself upright to a sitting position, tears already springing from her eyes, an envelope slid nonsensically from the air and fluttered to the ground before her. She stopped playing because her name — her full name, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights of the Ode clade — was printed on the front of the envelope in a handwriting that was painfully familiar because it was her own. It was her own and it was A Finger Pointing's and it was Beholden's, it was Slow Hours's and Warmth's and Dry Grass's, and it was the handwriting that flowed from the hand of every Odist even after hundreds of years.
 
-She stopped playing because she had a guess as to who this was from, and that only led to a second spike in anxiety, for while the first had been from a top-priority sensorium ping, this came from fear, from terror.
+She stopped playing because she had a guess as to who this was from, and that only led to a second spike in anxiety, for while the first had been from a top-priority sensorium ping, this came from fear, from terror. She stopped playing as Alex hollered, "Motes!" and started to run back to her. She stopped playing as she rolled to the side out of the sim and into her studio.
 
 She stopped playing and, with a shaky paw still seeping blood from skinned pads, she opened the envelope.