I am glad you came this far.
Not everyone does.
Some open the door, feel the temperature of the dark, and decide they were only curious. You were not. You stayed. You listened. You let the story brush its fingers along your spine and whisper things you did not expect to recognize.
Thank you for that courage.
Stories like this are not written to be consumed politely. They are written to linger. To stain the underside of thought. To follow you into quiet rooms and wait until you are alone enough to hear them again. If something in these pages stirred, tightened, or softened in a way you cannot quite name, then the work is already doing what it was meant to do.
I do not promise comfort in what comes next. I promise intention.
The next installment sharpens its teeth. Desires clarify. Power shifts hands. What watches from the dark grows closer, more intimate, more demanding of your attention. The story remembers who touched it, and it has already noticed you.
So here is my dare.
Close the book if you must. Walk away. Pretend the silence afterward is enough.
But if you return, do so knowingly. Come curious. Come hungry. Come ready to be seen by the thing you are reading. The dark ahead is not empty, and it does not wait forever.
Until then, thank you for trusting me with your attention.
The door remains ajar.