Lysara Thalaris Von Eskarion

I signed my name at the bottom of the last page.

A slow, precise, almost ceremonial gesture.

A habit I had picked up from Anthony.

He wrote at night, his gaze lost in the shadows, his thoughts weaving worlds that only he truly understood.

I did it in the morning.

When the mind is still pure, washed clean of the previous day's fears, suspended between dream and reality.

It was a moment for myself, intimate, fragile, like a breath before the storm.

With every word laid on the paper, I felt myself take root.

I felt that I was leaving a mark.

That ritual calmed me.

It had something sacred, fragile, profoundly real.

As if putting the words down on paper confirmed, in a way that neither speech nor memory could equal, that all of it was real.

That I wasn't dreaming.

That this life, this house, this name… weren't fleeting illusions meant to vanish upon waking.

Each written line became tangible proof.