Her notebook still lay open, her favorite pen resting in the slope between the pages. She was more than halfway through it; would have been needing a new one soon. Her writing wasn’t straight and neat, it wasn’t slow and elegant. The letters were thrown upon the page in a hurried scribble; her mind working faster than her hand could write. But the black ink was smooth and shiny, and the tan, rough paper gave the feeling of something old and lost. She had been in the middle of a sentence, at the end of a word: suddenly… What happened next? Who died? Who fell in love? Who was the hero and who was the coward? Who lived not so happily ever after; like her? An unfinished story. A frozen battle. A silenced war-cry. A cliffhanger…without the To be Continued. She created that world, that battle, those people—unmoving. And as I take out the pen, close the notebook, I wonder… What happens to the make-believe when the Believer is dead?