Kapitel: Nг¤chstes

He didn't write a poem. He didn't draft a plan. Instead, he took his pen and wrote two words at the very top, in letters so bold they felt like a heartbeat:

Elias looked at the notebook. He felt the weight of it—the literal weight of his past. With a hand that trembled only slightly, he gripped the corner of the next page. It was ivory, blank, and smelled faintly of cedar. NГ¤chstes Kapitel

For three years, that notebook had been his anchor. It was filled with the blueprints of a life that no longer existed: architectural sketches of a house he never built, grocery lists for a woman who was no longer there, and frantic prose written in the middle of sleepless nights. It was a book of "almosts." He didn't write a poem

Elias looked down. "I think I’m just afraid of what comes after the 'Fine'." He felt the weight of it—the literal weight of his past