The light from the Door didn't fade.It grew — filling everything until Lucien couldn't tell where his body ended and the world began. He felt Sera's hand still in his, her warmth the only anchor in an ocean of white.
Then the light folded into form.
They stood in a vast hall made of paper and ink. Pages floated like clouds, sentences running across the walls in shifting streams. Above them, words rained softly — every droplet a fragment of someone's story.
In the center, a desk.
At that desk sat someone — their face obscured by shadow, hand moving slowly across a page with a silver quill.Each stroke the figure made rippled through the air, rewriting parts of the hall.
Lucien whispered, "The Author."
Sera's grip on his hand tightened. "I thought they'd be… different."
The figure didn't look up.When they spoke, their voice was neither male nor female, old nor young — just calm, distant, eternal.
"You weren't supposed to reach this place."
Lucien took a step forward. "And yet we did."
The quill paused. "Every story has its limits. Even rebellion."
He clenched his fists. "You killed me. You made me a villain. You turned my life into a cage."
The Author's tone didn't change.
"I gave you purpose. You were meant to fall, so others could rise."
Sera's voice trembled. "And what about me? Did I exist just to forgive him?"
The Author finally looked up — and though their face was blurred, their eyes were infinite, like mirrors reflecting countless worlds.
"You were both necessary. Pain gives birth to meaning. Without it, stories fade."
Lucien shook his head. "You're wrong. Meaning isn't born from suffering. It's born from choice."
The Author smiled faintly. "Choice is an illusion given to characters to make them believe they are free."
"Then why am I standing here?" Lucien's voice was sharp, steady. "If I were truly bound to your script, I'd be dead. Yet I rewrote myself. I rewrote you."
For the first time, the Author hesitated. The silver quill stilled midair.
Sera stepped closer. "We found love in a world meant for tragedy. Isn't that proof enough that we exist beyond your words?"
The Author lowered their gaze. "Love…"They sounded almost human. "That word never lasts in ink."
Lucien approached the desk. "Then we'll take it out of your story."
Before the Author could react, he reached out — and placed his hand on the page they were writing. Instantly, the ink rippled, lines of text unraveling into light.
Sera gasped as the pages around them began to glow. The words that once imprisoned them now fluttered like fireflies, drifting upward, dissolving into the air.
The Author stood, voice strained for the first time.
"If you destroy the script, you'll lose everything. Your memories, your names—"
Lucien smiled sadly. "Maybe. But at least it'll be ours."
Sera nodded. "We'd rather fade free than live written."
The Author's eyes softened — not anger, not pity, just quiet understanding. "Perhaps this was always your ending."
They set down the quill. "Then write it."
Lucien looked at Sera. She nodded, tears in her eyes. Together, they took the quill — and for the first time, the story obeyed them.
He wrote slowly, carefully.
We were born from ink, but we learned to bleed.We were written to die, but we chose to live.And somewhere between those pages, we found each other.
As the last word was written, the world began to shine.The hall, the desk, the endless pages — all dissolved into gold light.Lucien felt warmth flood through him, not pain, not fear. Just peace.
He looked at Sera one last time. "Wherever the next story takes us…"
She smiled through her tears. "We'll meet again."
The light swallowed them both.