"...No? "
The crackle of the hearth is suddenly clear to you once more. You rub your eyes as you push off from the leather upholstery, your body stiff and numb from inactivity, your feet sparking with pins and needles. You're once again inside that little library, with bookshelves lining the walls.
Though something feels...different.
There was no light streaming through, for there were no windows in that cramped little space, but for whatever reason you could tell it was no longer bright where you were. That cold, unsettling dusk breeze blew through the room, tickling the hairs on your legs and caressing the smooth skin of your fingertips.
You look over, towards the fireplace. The hearth, once vibrant and roaring with a vehement fury, was now dull and placid, wafting around peacefully as if only a single breath away from being extinguished. Something about that feels wrong, though you can't exactly piece together the reason why you feel like that.
You cast your eyes back to the seat adjacent to you.
"Ah..."
The Author chuckled, his voice deep and earthy but strangely reserved, stroking his chin wistfully as if recalling a joke that wasn't exactly funny but humoured him nonetheless. He's splayed broadly across his chair, his dark, hulking form but a mere shadow in the fading firelight.
Their body was much the same as before; haggard, with thin arms, a sunken face and tired bags underneath their eyelids. More so, even, if you were being honest. Their eyes though... Those eyes, still so full of life they were it was astounding. But they too had changed.
No longer were they giddy little things, wild and skittish, seeming to focus on nothing and everything all at once. Now they were filled with sorrow, a regret with no name and no purpose, a guilt that transcended your feeble notions of space and time. That fiery determination, like the hearth, was extinguished, though you could still tell that spark still lingered deep within them, waiting for the right inspiration to call it out from the depths.
"Have you finally tired of my little Stories?"
You move to speak, to argue on the contrary. But before even a breath passes your lips, before you stumble to find the words to respond, a shudder passes through you, one of inexplicable origin that you don't think, nor will you be able to, you will ever feel ever again.
You can't begin to explain the sense of peace that has suddenly washed over you, overriding your conscious thought and leaving you bound in silence, lips, face, eyes unmoving.
All of a sudden you realise: this is it. You have heard all the stories, and enjoyed them to their fullest extent. Nothing more will do anything for you; rather, you want to preserve all the memories you had of them, to bundle them all into a little ball that you can call upon when you are angry, happy, sad even.
The Author laughed again, bringing you out of your personal monologue, though you can't tell if in this instance it was more out of the sake of politeness than anything else. It had this bitter sort of ring to it, like stale lime, and passed onto you this uncanny sort of melancholy.
"You don't want to continue from there?"
You shake your head meekly, even though you are completely sure of your convictions.
He chuckles again, that little light in his eyes sparking for the final time.
"Well, we ended it off on a pretty decent point, I'd like to think."
A low grunt escaped his lips as he levered himself from his chair. The rags across his body, aged and stained with mould and rot, wrinkled as he hunched over and collected the clutter of pens and papers scattered about the floor, each of the latter filled to the brim with scribbles that seemed to make more sense now that you really looked at them.
"We had a pretty good run, my dear Reader."
You opened your mouth to speak but he hushed you, smiling weakly. "No, you don't need to apologise."
He laughed a sombre sort of way as he neared the fireplace. With one fell swoop, he tossed all the papers into the flame, reigniting it and setting the room red. The heat that consequently emanated didn't scare you. It was quite warm, and comforting, and reminded you of a sense of home that felt familiar.
"Now," he continued, clapping his hands as he turned to you, "...Don't you dare feel disheartened. I understand what you're feeling, after all, without you even uttering a single word."
He strode across the room, his long limbs casting an intimidating shadow across the back wall.
"....So much choice, so many paths, but you're afraid to veer down them. Whether that's because you aren't particularly interested, or don't have the courage to explore, or for another multitude of reasons, that's for you to decide."
He shrugged. "Hey, I'm not one to judge." A low chuckle. "But it seems that you've come to peace with that. For that, I commend you. Not many have the courage to leave behind something like this."
Once again he grunted as he slithered back into his seat, exhaling loudly.
"Perhaps we're just looking in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I can picture it now, clear as day. There, far off into the future, exists a world much different than our own. Where the stories have been told a multitude of times, in a multitude of ways, each one just as valuable as the other."
Outside, you hear a door creak. You crane your neck towards it.
"Your journey here is complete, Reader." The Author waves his hand in a circle, gesturing for you to follow the sound. "I wish you the best of luck for whatever you choose to do now."
You nod, gulping audibly.
Your body doesn't seem to respond to your commands. Your right foot, stubborn, refuses to move, to head towards the noise. You press on and soon it twitches, begrudgingly accepting that your time here has come to an end. Your left foot soon follows, and then your arms, and then your whole body is moving as if by itself; palms slick with sweat, knees weak and trembling, arms heavy and unresponsive.
With some effort, you are back in that dimly lit foyer. The classical chandeliers have their candles burnt out. The room is no longer as welcoming as it once was. In fact, you feel as if it's leading you outwards, towards those ancient oak doors.
The distinct scent of jasmine has dissolved away, leaving the air cold and sterile. Your fingers trace along the nearby staircase, admiring the intricate notches carved in by the multitude of Readers that came there before you. Using your nail, you hastily scratch yet another little notch into the wood, your little mark to be remembered by.
A smirk crosses your lips as you trickle your fingers over the rounded handrail.
This is it after all. The Story's End.
Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes. What comes next may be scary. It may alarm, or shock, or even make you contemplate things that you'd never wanted to contemplate before. But whatever it is, it's yours to face.
You smile a final time as your eyes flash open.
With that, you edge closer to the old oak doors, taking both handles and tugging them open to step outside and into the Unknown.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
