Rion didn't go to school.
Not because he was sick. Not because he was hiding.
Because something told him: if he followed the routine today, the story would end without him.
He took his notebook and left the house before sunrise.
Walked without direction.
Each corner felt too familiar. Each cloud too placed.
Even the wind seemed rehearsed.
He sat in the park. Wrote nothing. Tore out no pages.
Then he opened to the last entry.
Blank.
A full page. No margins. No guidance.
Not even the usual pressure of the voice.
He waited.
Nothing came.
No whisper. No prompt. No "he will."
He flipped back two pages. Still blank.
Somewhere, the story had stopped writing him.
And now he was here—between sentences. Alone, but aware.
He picked up the pen.
Not to write.
Just to hold it.
To remind the page who was holding who.