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Elias took a slow sip of his espresso. Outside, the Berlin rain turned the pavement into a dark mirror, reflecting the neon amber of the streetlights. He looked at the last filled page—a messy, tear-stained entry from six months ago. Since then, he had carried the book everywhere, but he hadn't written a single word. He was stuck in the epilogue of his own grief.

"The thing about books," she said, leaning against the counter, "is that the spine only holds so many pages. If you keep reading the same one, you’re not a reader anymore. You’re just a statue." She walked away before he could respond. NГ¤chstes Kapitel

He didn't know what the first sentence of his new life would be yet, but for the first time in years, he was excited to find out. Elias closed the book, stood up, and walked out into the rain—leaving the espresso, and the ghosts, behind. Elias took a slow sip of his espresso

He didn't write a poem. He didn't draft a plan. Instead, he took his pen and wrote two words at the very top, in letters so bold they felt like a heartbeat: Since then, he had carried the book everywhere,

"You’re at the end of the ink?" she asked softly, nodding toward the book.