Does it have a happy ending? Or is “ending” just a story we tell ourselves to make the unknown bearable? We walk forward without guarantees, carrying fragments of meaning we have stitched together in the dark. And not all choices are ours to make, so much is decided beyond our will, beyond our reach. Perhaps there is no final resolution, only the quiet weight of what we chose and what was chosen for us, echoing beyond us. And if there is any happiness, it isn’t waiting at the end. It is something fragile we create, moment by moment, before everything dissolves into silence.