The Book pulsed. Pages tore themselves from the spine. The story bled.
And he knew—
He couldn't win this with power.
Not even with remembrance.
He had to do something harder.
Something cruel.
He had to let go.
One by one, he reached into the Book.
And tore out names.
His mother's lullaby.
The scent of his first home.
The voice of the first friend he ever lost.
The warmth of being loved.
He gave them to the story.
To the bleeding thing.
Fed it.
Filled it.
And when it was full—
He wrote one last word.
"End."
The creature shuddered.
Then collapsed.
The pages fluttered down around them.
And were still.
Aiden fell to his knees.
The Book was nearly empty.
His hands, stained with memory.
And in his chest—a silence he didn't know how to name.
He had ended another story.
But not without cost.
Myne knelt beside him, holding his hand.
"You okay?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Just looked up.
At the sky.
The bleeding thread was gone.
