“You’re not real,” she whispered to the fog. “None of this is.”
She saw a woman. Scared. Flawed. But still standing.
“Yes, you do.” The ink rose, forming a door. “Open it.”
And she plunged the shard into her own heart. The church shattered. Dahlia screamed. The ash statues crumbled. And Cheryl fell into darkness, warm and quiet, like being held.