The city of Blackglass did not change overnight.
The fog still clung to alleyways.
The clocks still hesitated before each hour.
And shadows still whispered where no wind moved.

But something had shifted.

Subtly.
Irrevocably.

The script was gone.

Edrick stood beneath the morning light.
Real light.
No spotlight. No performance.

The ruins of the under-theater smoldered behind him.
The Harlequin’s mask lay buried under ash and time.

He held a single page.

Blank.

No title. No ink.
Just space.

A story unwritten.

And for the first time in his life—
he wasn’t afraid to write it.

Lira sat on the edge of the old conservatory rooftop.

She let the wind tug at her white hair.

No thread bound her wrist anymore.

But something still pulsed beneath her skin.

Memory.

Not as a weight.
But as a foundation.

The Wolf had vanished.
Not dead. Not lost.

Returned to the place inside her
where truth and nightmare had once danced.

And now… were still.

They met at the clocktower at midday.

No words.

Just eyes.

And the smallest of nods.

No grand declarations.
No promises they couldn’t keep.

Just presence.

Just—

Now.

Later, as the sun fell behind the Blackglass skyline,
a black flower bloomed in a hidden courtyard.

No one planted it.

No one watered it.

And yet—
there it was.

Delicate. Silent.

A single bloom.

At its center:
a silver thread.

Uncut.

Untouched.

Waiting.

Because even if the play was over—
and the masks had fallen—

the abyss never truly closed.

It only waited for the next one
willing to write.