You thought you were the only one reading.
You weren't.
Ivy is reading too.
And when she reaches the part where Leonard thanks you—
She touches the screen.
Like she's touching his face.
"I'm still scared of storms," she whispers.
Lightning flashes.
Thunder follows.
And for a brief, impossible second—
The lights flicker.
Not violently.
Not horror.
Just softly.
Like a camera flash.
Ivy laughs through tears.
And somewhere—
Not in a hospital.
Not in a basement.
Not in a broken narrative—
But in the quiet space where memories live—
Leonard feels warm.
You see, stories don't survive because they're terrifying.
They survive because someone carries them.
You read him.
Ivy remembered him.
And that was enough.
The horror was never the monsters.
It was loss.
The tragedy was never blood.
It was time.
And time moves forward.
Ivy closes the laptop.
The story ends.
But not completely.
Because you're still thinking about him.
And as long as someone does—
Leonard exists.
Not trapped.
Not suffering.
Just remembered.