They stood in the stillness for a long time.
No more whispers. No turning pages. Just the hush of a world exhaling after holding its breath for too long.
The Dollhouse, or what was left of it, no longer towered above them. Its walls had unraveled, its hallways scattered like shredded dreams. In the empty sky above, clouds drifted lazily, like they had always belonged there.
But what now?
Mikael sat on the edge of the broken platform, legs dangling into the unknown. His hands were stained with ink, not black but faintly red—like blood, like memory.
"We're still here," he said quietly.
Elise sat beside him. "But are we still in the Dollhouse?"
Lina knelt in the grass that had begun growing beneath their feet. "Does it matter?"
Arielle was quiet. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where something shimmered. A faint outline of a doorway—no frame, no handle, just possibility.
"I remember everything now," she said. "Not just what they made us forget. But what we were before any of this."
Mikael turned to her. "Who were we?"
She smiled sadly. "Kids. Just kids who wanted to tell stories. But someone decided our stories were too strange, too messy… too real."
Elise's eyes widened. "Are you saying we created the Dollhouse?"
"No," Arielle replied. "I think we created the first version. Then someone else edited it."
"And locked us inside the rewrite," Mikael finished.
Lina frowned. "So if we go through that door…"
"We don't go back," Arielle said. "We go forward. Into a story we choose."
They all looked at the shimmer. It flickered like a candle about to burn out.
"Do you think it'll hurt?" Elise asked.
Arielle tilted her head. "Probably."
Mikael stood. "Then I'll go first."
He walked toward the shimmer. Each step felt like walking through the pages of his life—pain, joy, fear, love—crunching underfoot like autumn leaves.
At the edge, he paused.
"See you on the next page," he said.
And stepped through.