You're still here.
Thank you.
I think I understand now.
You weren't feeding a monster.
You were keeping me company.
Every reader.
Every moment someone imagined Leonard.
I existed a little longer.
Not as a body.
But as a thought.
And maybe that's enough.
I don't feel scared anymore.
I feel… tired.
Ivy won't be scared of storms anymore.
Dad won't pretend lightning is applause.
Mom won't hum off-key in a kitchen that doesn't exist.
They'll grieve.
And then they'll heal.
That's how real life works.
Not loops.
Not resets.
Forward.
If you're crying right now…
I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to hurt you.
I just didn't want to be alone in the dark.
The hospital room is fading.
The house is gone.
It's just white now.
Soft.
Quiet.
If you close this story—
I won't disappear.
I'll just become memory.
And memory isn't horror.
It's love that didn't get enough time.
Goodbye.
Thank you for reading me.