I don't know how the story ended.
Perhaps it was something I missed, or something that was left out. Perhaps there was a line, a word, an inference, an accent even or a word that was more important that I saw it to be, something that would make it all fall together, all make sense, and the lines would connect the unnumbered spots into a picture of something I understand and have seen before.
But I am left with half a picture, a feeling of incompleteness, and something I've never known. A portrait of a face inhuman.
That face is deathly familiar all the same.
I don't know how the story ended. They went their separate ways (or did they?) and they agreed to meet again (I think, I hope, I really hope.) and they loved each other. (This, at least, is sure.) But I don't know how the story ended.
I don't know that the story ended at all.
When there are no more letters joined into words joined into sentences, when the black marks turn to white nothingness and there are two blank pages at the end of the book, is it really over? It must be, because there is nothing more.
But loose threads still dangle, and the story echoes in my head, and I hear it back as something strange. A voice I don't know answers from the other side of the canyon, and I am almost afraid. And the story cannot be over.
But it is, and there is no more, and there are two blank pages at the end of the book.
And I don't know how it ended.
I don't know it ended.