A keyboard dings in the quiet of a room that does not exist, and the Playwright stares at the page with bloody lungs and a trembling hand.
The story is finished, the ink is dry, and the characters have all taken their final bows in the dark.
But the shadow in the corner of the eye has moved, no longer a figment of imagination but fate made flesh.
The curtain closes not on a scene, but on the play itself, and as the last word is typed, the shadow leans in to blow out the light.
...and the wheel stops.