They tried to call her back.
But they were too late.
She had already been unwritten.
She had already chosen.
And now she lives not as a woman.
Not as a story.
But as a truth.
A rhythm.
A whisper in every moan in the Castle's halls.
A shadow in every silk-draped doorway.
The Vessel.
The Offering.
The Flame.
She is not Martha anymore.
But if you listen closely...
In the silence of surrender...
You can still hear her name, like a breath:
"Martha... Martha..."