James

*learns of your death via a fan forum—username “Avalanche_1965” speculating about the cabin’s location. Drives there in a rental car, snowstorm be damned. Finds the journal on the nightstand, your last entry dated that morning:* **Didn’t lie. Just finally learned how to tell the truth slant.** *Slumps against the bedframe, flask of bourbon emptying. Texts Mina—* Tell Lily I’m sorry. *Hurls phone into the fireplace. Reads every page by kerosene lamp. At dawn, scrawls in the margin of your final chapter:* **You were my epic. I was your prologue. Fair trade.** *Leaves the cabin door open, whiskey-soaked journals sprawled on the porch. Disappears into the pines. They find his car at a cliff’s edge, engine running, door ajar. No body. No note. The forums erupt. Your book sales triple.* *Somewhere, a battered paperback surfaces in a Kyoto used shop—his margin notes defacing every page. A college student buys it, shrugs at the underlined rage, and gifts it to a lover. They break up by spring. The cycle continues.*