But this?—
This is mine.
And then?—
Nothing.
No Day 127.
Just blank pages.
Back to Tessa
Tessa didn’t move.
“Day 118,” she said quietly. “The air feels heavier.”
“She had asthma. Did you know that?”
Silence.
“You controlled the light. The temperature.”
Her voice sharpened.
“But you didn’t know her lungs were failing.”
She turned another page.
“You thought she stopped writing because she gave up.”
“She didn’t.”
Silence.
“She withheld.”
Another beat.
“You built a room where you controlled everything.”
Her gaze lifted toward the ceiling.
“But she found the one thing you couldn’t monitor.”
Her voice cooled.
“You think you authored her ending.”
“You didn’t.”
“She did.”
Silence.
A faint intake of breath over the speaker.
Then the intercom crackled once.
