She has always known how the story ends. The book in her hands is not a book. It is her life — every choice, every breath, every door she walked through and every staircase she never climbed. She reads slowly now. Not because she wants to understand. Because she wants more time. Behind her, Death has been waiting for three moons. Patient. Silent. It does not rush. It never rushes. It knows what she knows — there is only one page left. The birds circle but do not land. The red planets pulse like a dying heartbeat. The old house behind her has already begun to forget her name. She reads. One line. Then another. Almost.