…and with every step, the silence deepened.
Not the silence of peace—but the silence of a world holding its breath, uncertain whether the story had ended or merely turned its page.
The villagers—those who had survived—emerged from behind shattered syllables and half-crushed metaphors. They looked at Cecilion with awe, but not as a hero. As a remnant. The one who had watched it all and returned bearing absence.
He carried the mask like a reliquary, not daring to speak. For every word might bring her back—or worse, undo what she had become.
Behind him, the tree that grew from the First Rewrite whispered in the wind. Its leaves bore fragments of phrases—snatches of her voice—fluttering endlessly.
"Revise me."
"I am the character who survived the cut."
"Every word truly matters."
And then…
A sound.
Not a scream. Not a howl.
A scratch.
Faint, but unmistakable.
Paper.
Cecilion turned.
