No One Buys. No One Knocks. No One Home.
The door stayed unlocked. No one came.
Lights buzzed. Shelves settled into their dust. The bell above the frame, tuned and waiting, forgot how to ring.
The author stopped. Stopped rearranging. Stopped watching the window like it owed him something. The silence wasn’t temporary. It was permanent and wearing cheap cologne.
One morning. No fanfare. No final post. No clever sign-off. Just a note taped crooked to the glass.
Gone missing on purpose.
The blog dimmed. Stories wandered off. A couple whispered things to the furniture, but nothing stuck. The books left last, without a sound. Now there’s nothing in the front. Nothing in the back. Not even a light pretending to flicker.
If you’re reading this, you missed it. Nothing’s for sale. Nothing’s free. The whole place slipped sideways and won’t be coming back.
This isn’t the end. Just the part where the narrator walks into the fog and doesn’t say goodbye.
