They returned in silence.
Noah was gone.
His name was already fading from the town records. From memory. As though he had never existed.
Elior kept the sixth letter in his coat pocket, its words burning against his ribs like a brand.
> "Six locks undone.
One remains.
The final key lies in the heart of the house.
Return to where it began.
To the desk.
To the first breath of ink.
And finish the story."
It was time to go back.
Back to the house.
Back to the desk where he had found the first letter.
Back to the beginning.
---
The front door creaked open on its own.
Maren flinched. "That wasn't wind."
Vianna held Aimee's hand. "He's waiting."
Inside, everything was just as Elior had left it.
Dusty. Silent. Cold.
The desk stood in the corner of the study—untouched.
But now, it was no longer empty.
A blank sheet of parchment sat in the center. A black ink bottle rested beside it, untouched. The quill was upright, dripping with ink that shimmered red under the pale moonlight.
Elior stepped forward.
Aimee whispered, "He wants you to finish the story."
Maren shook her head. "That's not just ink. That's blood."
Elior sat down.
The chair groaned under him. As he picked up the quill, something clicked.
Behind the wall.
A hidden compartment slid open.
Inside was a final envelope.
The seal bore the symbol of an eye with seven tears.
He broke it.
Unfolded the letter.
And read:
> "There was never a seventh seal.
There was only the writer.
And the last page must be written in your hand.
Because you were never the reader.
You were the final door."
---
Everything shifted.
The walls pulsed—slow and rhythmic, like breathing.
The ink bottle shook.
And behind them, the air turned cold.
A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere:
> "Well done, Elior.
You've brought them all.
The souls. The keys.
The ink.
The page."
> "Now write.
And let me through."
Elior trembled. The pen in his hand dripped red onto the page.
Aimee shouted, "Don't do it! That's how he crosses over!"
Maren grabbed his shoulder. "We break the cycle here!"
But Elior's hand moved on its own.
His fingers curled unnaturally.
And he began to write:
"The door opened, and he stepped through..."
---
The floor cracked.
A long tear split across the study.
From beneath—light.
Not warm.
But cold, blinding white.
Like staring into the sun of a dead world.
Something began to climb through.
Tall.
Bone-thin.
Wearing a crown of paper and ink.
The Archivist.
The one who had sent the first letter.
The one who had waited for centuries—locked behind words.
Elior screamed, dropping the quill. "I can't stop it!"
Vianna reached for the page—and tore it.
The light vanished.
The floor slammed shut.
The figure froze—halfway through the tear between worlds.
Trapped in the split.
Maren grabbed the desk and overturned it.
The ink spilled across the floor, hissing like acid.
The Archivist howled without a mouth, his body folding in on itself, page by page, until he was nothing but a blank scrap of paper drifting to the ground.
Then silence.
---
They stood in the ruined study.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Alive.
Elior bent down and picked up the scrap.
One word was written across it now.
> "Again."
He looked at Aimee.
She stared back, pale.
"He's not dead."
"No," Elior said. "Just waiting."
Vianna touched her throat. "So what now?"
"We seal the desk. Burn the house."
Maren nodded. "And the letters?"
Elior looked at the parchment, now blank again.
And then, carefully… he sat back down.
Picked up the pen.
And began to write.
> "This is the record.
Of what we opened.
Of what we sealed.
And of what must never be read again."
---
They never spoke of it after.
The house was reduced to ash.
The names of the lost—Rin, Noah, and the girl beneath the forest—faded from the minds of everyone in town.
Only four remembered.
Only four carried the truth.
But far away, in a city far removed from Greyhollow…
A child received a letter in the mail.
No address.
No stamp.
No sender.
Only an envelope sealed with an eye of seven tears.
And inside, seven words:
> "Let me tell you a story…"