Why does the story not end?
Don’t you long to know its final breath, oh Sun?
How many words must still be spoken,
How many must still bleed onto the page?

The story is eternal,
Flowing like the tide of time,
Like the ichor of gods and the blood of mortals.
It breathes like a wish,
Drifts like a whisper,
And soars like a bird unchained.

It watches me with the eyes of the abyss,
Loves me with the touch of death.
It lingers in the spaces between silence and sound,
Between memory and forgetting.

As long as I read, it lives.
As long as I listen, it speaks.
No end, no chains, no grave to rest in.
I am the reader—
And so the story walks with me,
Unbound by time.