The air of Inverness, in the United Kingdom, carried a chill that was sharp but not cruel. The River Ness flowed with quiet purpose, its surface rippling under a sky the color of slate. It was a city that hummed with stories — of Picts and Norsemen, of rebellions and kings. But beneath its historical weight lay a quieter, more elusive rhythm. It was the rhythm of lives still being written, choices not yet made, and destinies waiting to be met.
One of those lives belonged to a woman named Elara Macrae. She was known in her circles as “the one who saw too clearly,” a woman who seemed to understand people before they understood themselves. Her gaze had a way of settling on you like the winter mist — soft, silent, and all-encompassing. She ran a small bookshop near Church Street, a place she’d named The Inkwell of Doubt, because, as she often said, “Nothing of worth was ever written in certainty.”
And that, perhaps, was why she noticed him.
He came in just as the first snow of December brushed the cobblestones, his coat too thin for the weather, his eyes too guarded for a traveler. She noticed his hands first — rough, calloused, like a man used to wielding tools. His gaze flickered across the room with the tension of someone expecting to be hunted. He didn’t fit in with the tourists. He didn’t ask for the Loch Ness trinkets or browse the historical guides. He moved as if searching for something he couldn’t name.
“Looking for anything in particular?” Elara asked from behind the counter, her tone warm but watchful.
He glanced at her, his jaw tight. “Just… something to read.” His accent wasn’t local. Northern, maybe. Yorkshire, she guessed. He didn’t give his name, and she didn’t ask for it. Not yet.
But something about him stirred something old inside her — a quiet, wordless certainty that she would come to question over and over.
The first snowfall in Inverness never settled long, just a dusting over rooftops and riverbanks. Elara watched it from the large window of The Inkwell of Doubt, a book of Icelandic folklore open in her lap. The story on the page spoke of seals that shed their skins to walk the land as humans. Creatures living between two worlds.
The doorbell chimed, and she looked up. It was him again. The stranger. He shook snow from his hair, his coat dripping at the edges. For a moment, he stood there, framed by the doorway, the cold behind him and something colder in his eyes.
“Back again,” she said, rising slowly from her chair. “You must be looking for something more specific this time.”
He hesitated. “I liked the last one you gave me.”
“Did you?” She tilted her head, studying him. “The Long Walk isn’t for the faint of heart.”
“Not faint of heart,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the shelves. “Just… familiar.”
Her eyes narrowed. She knew that look — the look of someone haunted. The shop was quiet, just the faint ticking of the old wall clock. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she asked the question she’d been holding back since she first saw him.
“What is it you’re running from?”
His eyes snapped to hers, sharp and defensive. But she didn’t flinch. She’d seen it too many times before — the wild, cornered look of someone who thought their past was far enough behind them.
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” he said, his voice low but sharp.
“Not everything,” she replied, her gaze steady. “But I know what it looks like when someone walks into a bookshop like it’s a hiding place.”
He held her stare for a moment too long, and for an instant, something like recognition passed between them.
“Cal Calloway,” he said finally, his shoulders dropping slightly as if surrendering to something inevitable.
“Elara Macrae,” she replied. “Welcome to The Inkwell of Doubt, Cal.”
The days passed, and Cal Calloway became a fixture of The Inkwell of Doubt. He never spoke of why he was in Inverness or how long he planned to stay. Some days he bought books. Other days, he just sat at the table near the poetry section, running his fingers across his jaw, lost in thought.
Elara watched him without watching. She’d learned to be quiet with her attention. People revealed more that way. She noticed the way his fingers tapped his leg when he was anxious. How he always sat with his back to the wall, his eyes on the door. But most of all, she noticed the way he read.
He didn’t just read words — he hunted them. It was as if every sentence was a thread in a tapestry he was desperate to unravel. She caught him re-reading paragraphs, leaning back in his chair, and exhaling as if he’d just surfaced from deep water.
“Tell me something, Cal,” she said one afternoon as she restocked the shelves. “What are you certain of?”
He glanced up, brow furrowed. “What?”
“Certainty,” she repeated. “Everyone clings to something certain. What’s yours?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes shadowed with something old and worn. “Certainty’s a trap,” he muttered. “Soon as you think you’ve got it, it’s gone.”
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Exactly.”
She didn’t say it, but he saw it in her eyes. He saw the quiet truth of it, as if she’d known it her whole life. Nothing of worth was ever written in certainty.
Spring arrived slowly in Inverness. The frost clung stubbornly to the mornings, even as the crocuses bloomed along the riverbank. Elara noticed it first in Cal — the change. The way he lingered longer. The way his shoulders didn’t seem so tight anymore. He told her stories now, not about himself, but about places. Seaports he’d worked in. Men he’d fought. Dreams he’d had.
“Why books?” he asked one day, turning the page of a weathered copy of Beowulf. “Out of everything, why this?”
She glanced up from behind the counter, her eyes steady on his. “Because books are the only place where uncertainty isn’t a flaw. It’s where questions matter more than answers.”
He leaned back, his gaze flickering to the shelves. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice quiet. “That checks out.”
But he didn’t mean it lightly. She could hear it — the weight in his voice. She didn’t push him. She never did.
But a storm was brewing, and she could feel it. His phone calls, his sudden glances at the door. It was only a matter of time before it reached him.
That night, the rain lashed against the windows of The Inkwell of Doubt. The streetlights flickered. Cal stood by the window, his hands deep in his pockets, his breath fogging the glass.
“They’re coming,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Sooner than I thought.”
Elara’s eyes stayed on him. Her heart didn’t race. Her breath didn’t catch. She was too old for fear.
“Do you have a choice?” she asked.
His jaw tightened. “Not this time.”
She moved slowly to stand beside him, watching the rain fall like threads unraveling from the sky. She didn’t touch him, but her presence was steady, like the rhythm of the river.
“If you have to go,” she said softly, “go. But don’t mistake running for freedom.”
His eyes shifted to her. “What about you? What are you certain of, Elara Macrae?”
Her breath curled on the glass like smoke. She watched it fade.
“Only one thing,” she whispered. “That certainty is a lie.”
They stood there for a long time, saying nothing. Just two people caught between what they ran from and what they still had to face.
Nothing of worth was ever written in certainty.
The storm didn’t end that night. Not for either of them.
The storm pressed itself against Inverness like an unwanted guest that refused to leave. Rain lashed the windows of The Inkwell of Doubt, and wind rattled the eaves like the breath of something too large to be seen. Elara’s world had always been one of quiet control — the smell of old paper, the creak of wooden floors, and the slow turn of pages. But tonight, everything felt unsteady.
Cal paced by the front window, his eyes following the narrow stretch of Church Street below. His gaze flicked toward every passing figure, every stray shadow. It wasn’t panic — it was something colder, more calculated. A soldier waiting for the enemy to crest the hill.
“Cal,” Elara said softly from behind the counter. Her voice had that weight again — the kind that made people stop and listen. He did.
“Yeah?” he asked without turning.
“Do you trust me?”
The question hung in the air like a slow, falling stone. He stopped pacing. For a moment, all that could be heard was the ticking of the old clock.
“Don’t know,” he admitted finally, turning toward her. His face was drawn tight, his eyes narrowed like he was working out a puzzle. “But I reckon I trust you more than most.”
“That’ll do,” she said, stepping out from behind the counter. She walked slowly, deliberately, until she stood in front of him. Close enough to see the lines around his eyes, the small scar at the edge of his lip. “Whatever it is you’re running from, you can face it here.”
He breathed in sharply, like she’d struck him. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”
“I do.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I know exactly what I’m offering.”
His eyes flickered with something raw — fear, maybe. Or hope. Sometimes they looked the same.
“Certainty’s a lie, Cal,” she said, her voice as steady as the river. “But doubt? Doubt means you’re still free.”
Cal didn’t sleep that night. He sat at the small round table in the back of the shop, his fingers tracing the worn cover of The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Elara had left it there for him, not by accident. A story about survival. A story about carrying the fire. He didn’t open it. Just sat there, tapping his fingers on the cover like a metronome.
The first knock came at 2:13 a.m. — a sharp, hollow rap against the front door. It wasn’t loud, but it carried. The kind of sound that wasn’t asking permission.
Elara woke instantly from the small cot in the back room. She’d always been a light sleeper, and tonight, she’d known she would be needed. She didn’t rush. She slipped on her wool cardigan, glanced at the rain-streaked window, and moved quietly toward the front.
Cal was already at the door, his back to her, his frame tense like a bowstring drawn too tight. She could see his shoulders rise and fall with slow, measured breaths.
“Don’t answer it,” she said quietly, her voice sharp as flint.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he muttered, his eyes locked on the door.
Another knock. Louder this time. Three heavy thuds.
“You think it’s them?” she asked.
“Not think,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Know.”
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. Her eyes moved to the back of the shop, to the alley door. Her mind traced escape routes, possibilities, contingencies. Not panic — just precision.
“Do they know you’re here?” she asked.
“Not sure,” he replied. “But they’re the type to try every door.”
The knock came again, and this time, a voice followed.
“Cal,” the man outside called. His accent was thick, Glaswegian, and rough as sea rock. “We know you’re in there, mate. Come on out, and this’ll be simple.”
Elara tilted her head, her eyes sharp with quiet calculation. “Simple,” she muttered, glancing at Cal. “That’s never true, is it?”
He gave a humorless laugh, eyes still on the door. “Not in my world.”
Another knock. Harder this time. Boom. Boom. Boom.
“Cal Calloway,” the man said, his voice louder now, more insistent. “Don’t make us drag you out. Bad for you. Worse for anyone with you.”
Elara moved then. She stepped forward, her hand brushing his arm as she passed. It was a brief touch, but it snapped him out of whatever trance he’d been in. He turned to her, brow furrowed.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low.
“Something foolish,” she replied, walking toward the door. Her bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Elara, don’t.”
But she didn’t stop. She reached for the latch, her fingers resting lightly on the cool brass. Cal was behind her now, his breath tight in his chest. He didn’t grab her, but his eyes were wild with disbelief.
She looked back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were calm. Steady. “If you want to walk the edge of certainty, Cal, then stay quiet.” Her gaze flicked back to the door. “But if you’re willing to doubt it, you’ll see a way through.”
He stared at her like she’d spoken in riddles. Maybe she had. But he didn’t stop her.
The latch clicked. Slowly, she opened the door just enough to see the men on the other side. Three of them. Big. Broad-shouldered. The kind of men who didn’t ask twice.
The one in front — the leader — tilted his head when he saw her. His eyes swept over her, noting the grey threads in her hair, the softness of her frame.
“Sorry, love,” he said, his voice laced with condescension. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” His grin was sharp as broken glass. “We’re just here for the lad.”
Elara leaned her weight against the doorframe, tilting her head. Her gaze never left his. “No lads here,” she said, her tone cool as Highland fog. “Just a woman who’s not in the mood for guests.”
The man’s grin faltered. He looked past her, his eyes scanning the shadows inside. “Don’t lie for him, miss. It’s not worth it.”
“Lying requires certainty,” she said, her voice firm. “And certainty, as you might have guessed, is in short supply here.”
The man blinked, thrown off just enough. He glanced at the other two men, his grin slipping into a scowl. “Don’t get clever, old girl.”
Her eyes stayed locked on his. No fear. No doubt. “I’m not old,” she said, tilting her head, “but I am clever.”
Silence. Just the rain and the low, steady hum of streetlights buzzing overhead. The leader’s scowl deepened. He took a half-step forward, just enough to loom.
“I’ll give you one chance,” he said slowly. “Hand him over, and we leave.”
Her eyes didn’t move. “Certainty,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Always sounds so convincing, doesn’t it?”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, she closed the door. Not fast. Not loud. Just slow and deliberate, like sealing a book shut after the final page has been read. The latch clicked.
Elara turned to Cal. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady. “They’ll try to break it,” she said, her voice even. “They’ll fail.”
He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “You really believe that?”
Her lips pressed into a thin smile. “Belief,” she said softly. “That’s just another kind of certainty.”
For the first time that night, Cal’s breath came easy. He looked at her like a man standing on the edge of something vast. Not safe. But possible.
“Alright, Elara,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll doubt it with you.”
She smiled, just a flicker. “That’s the only way forward, Cal Calloway.”
Nothing of worth was ever written in certainty.
And in that moment, the storm outside raged louder than before, but the two of them — standing there together — did not flinch.
The storm outside had found its rhythm — rain battering the windows like frantic fingers, wind howling through the narrow alleyways of Inverness. It was the kind of night where the world felt thinner, like if you pressed hard enough against the air, you might slip through into something else entirely.
Inside The Inkwell of Doubt, the world was quieter but no less tense. Cal moved to the back of the shop, his eyes darting toward the alley door, his steps light on the old wooden floor. His body moved with the sharp, deliberate motions of a man accustomed to tight corners and fewer exits than he’d like. He checked the latch, pressed his palm against the frame, testing it for weakness. His breath came slow and even, but his eyes were sharp as broken glass.
“They’ll come,” he muttered, glancing toward Elara, who was leaning against the counter, arms folded, eyes watching him like a hawk.
“They might,” she said, tilting her head, “or they might not.”
He turned toward her, frustration flashing across his face. “You always this calm, or is this some act you put on for strangers?”
“Calm isn’t certainty,” she replied, her eyes steady on him. “It’s doubt mastered.”
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh but not quite. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”
“Books do that too,” she said with a small, knowing smile. “But you still read them.”
Cal shook his head, brushing his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, well, books don’t kick down your door.”
“Depends on the book,” she replied, pushing off from the counter. Her eyes flicked to the window. Outside, the three men hadn’t left. She could see them under the yellow glow of the streetlight, the leader pacing now, a shadow flickering against the rain-slick pavement.
Cal followed her gaze. “They’ll get impatient.”
“Impatience leads to mistakes,” she said quietly, walking toward the window. “If you’ve learned anything from books, you’d know that.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “You really think we can outlast them?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the man outside — the leader with the Glaswegian accent and the grin too sharp to be friendly. She watched the way he tilted his head toward his companions, speaking in low, clipped words. She knew that body language. She’d seen it before. It wasn’t strategy — it was frustration. People made mistakes when they were frustrated.
“You’ve seen enough storms,” she said finally, “and you stop worrying about the thunder.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either.
Minutes passed like hours. Cal sat at the table, one leg bouncing in a quiet, rapid rhythm. Elara brewed tea as if it were just another evening. The steam from the kettle curled in soft spirals toward the ceiling. She poured two cups, her hands as steady as stone.
“You act like this is nothing,” Cal muttered, rubbing his palms together like he was warming them against a fire that wasn’t there.
“That’s because it is,” she said, setting a cup in front of him.
His eyes flicked to the tea. Then to her. “You’re unreal, you know that?”
“Hardly,” she replied, sitting across from him. “Unreal things don’t leave footprints.”
They sat in silence for a while, the rain drumming harder against the window. Cal’s eyes stayed on the door. He’d seen nights like this before, but never from this side. He knew how it worked. They’d knock again. If no one answered, they’d kick the door. If the door held, they’d try the windows or the alley. Men like this didn’t leave quietly. They didn’t know how.
But Elara sat there, sipping her tea, as if she’d seen it all before. Maybe she had.
“Why are you helping me?” Cal asked suddenly. His voice was quieter now, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer. “You don’t know me. For all you know, I deserve whatever’s coming.”
She set her teacup down slowly, her fingers still resting on the rim. Her eyes met his, and in them was that same stillness that unnerved him from the moment they met.
“Everyone deserves something,” she said softly. “But no one deserves to face it alone.”
He let out a breath, long and slow, like he’d been holding it for hours. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the grain of the table. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“I don’t need to,” she replied, leaning forward slightly. “I only need to know that you want to do different.”
He went quiet. He didn’t nod. Didn’t agree. But he didn’t argue either.
The rain fell harder. The three men outside hadn’t moved.
It was nearly 4 a.m. when the first blow came.
BAM!
The sound echoed through the shop like a gunshot. Elara didn’t flinch. She just glanced up at the door, her eyes narrowing. Cal shot to his feet, his chair scraping the floor behind him. His breathing had gone sharp again, the way it had when he first arrived. The way it always did when there was nowhere left to run.
“Here we go,” he muttered, his voice tight.
Another slam. BAM!
The door shuddered in its frame, the brass latch rattling like bones in a tin can. Cal darted toward the back, eyes scanning for another exit. “We need to move.”
“No,” Elara said firmly, not looking at him. “We hold.”
He spun toward her. “Are you insane? You can’t talk them down this time, Elara.”
“I’m not trying to.” She moved toward the door, slow but certain. Her hands brushed over the wooden frame, feeling for something unseen. Her fingers stopped at a small notch carved into the frame near the hinge. “Do you know why this shop is still standing after two hundred years?”
He frowned, his breath coming short. “What?”
“This,” she said, tapping the frame. “Old wood. Old bones. This place has seen storms worse than this. It’s still standing.”
“Wood doesn’t stop people,” he shot back.
“Doesn’t have to,” she said, eyes flicking to him. “People stop themselves.”
Another BAM! splintered the air. This time, the frame cracked.
Cal cursed, his hands pressing to his head. “They’re not going to stop, Elara. They won’t.”
She stepped away from the door, her eyes clear, her breath slow. “Then let them in.”
He froze. “What?”
“Let them in,” she repeated. Her gaze met his, unblinking. “They’ll think it’s won. They’ll think they’re certain.” She stepped closer, voice a low murmur. “But certainty makes people blind, Cal.” She tilted her head, eyes sharp as flint. “And doubt? Doubt makes you watch everything.”
He blinked, realization slowly dawning in his eyes. She saw it. The shift. The same shift she’d seen in her own reflection years ago. The moment someone realized that survival didn’t come from certainty. It came from doubt — the constant, watchful kind. The kind that never stopped looking for the crack in the world’s armor.
Another BAM! and the door burst inward, splinters flying like shrapnel. The leader stepped inside, his grin a jagged knife in the dim light. His two men followed, their eyes hard and sharp.
“Well, well,” the leader drawled, his eyes sweeping over the shop. “Told you it’d be simple.”
Cal stepped back slowly, his breathing steady now. His eyes flicked to Elara, and she gave him the smallest nod. Not a word. Just a nod.
The leader grinned wider, stepping toward them, arms spread like a man already victorious. “Certainty,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Nothing like it, aye?”
Cal smiled, slow and sharp as a blade being drawn. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It’s a hell of a trap.”
The leader frowned — just for a moment. A moment too late.
Elara moved first.
So did Cal.
The storm outside roared louder than ever, but inside, the world had gone very, very quiet.
Nothing of worth was ever written in certainty.
The leader barely had time to react before Cal’s movements exploded into focus. He wasn’t large, but he was fast — sharp, controlled motions honed by years of desperation. His elbow drove upward into the leader’s jaw, snapping his head back with a sickening crack. Before the man’s body could react to the impact, Cal stepped aside, letting him crumble to the floor like a toppled statue.
The other two men surged forward, their size more of a threat than their strategy. Elara didn’t hesitate. She reached behind the counter and pulled an old brass candlestick, its base worn smooth by time. It wasn’t a weapon, not really, but in her hands, it had purpose.
The first man lunged toward her, but she stepped to the side with a precision that came from instinct. The candlestick came down hard across the back of his head, and he staggered, his balance lost to the momentum of his attack.
The third man turned his focus to Cal, who was already moving. A chair crashed against the wall, splintering into pieces as it missed its target. Cal sidestepped, his hands moving with the calculated motions of someone who knew he couldn’t win with brute force.
It wasn’t a fight. Not in the way the three men had expected. It was survival.
The leader groaned on the floor, his hand clutching his jaw as he tried to push himself upright. His eyes locked onto Elara, and he spat blood onto the wooden floor. “You think this ends here?” he hissed, his voice slurred.
Elara stood over him, her breath steady despite the chaos. The candlestick hung loosely in her hand, its surface glinting faintly in the dim light.
“This?” she said, her voice calm but heavy with meaning. “This is nothing.”
His eyes narrowed, confusion flickering behind his pain.
“Certainty brought you here,” she continued, her tone almost conversational. “It made you blind to the cracks in your own plan. That’s the problem with people like you. You mistake your certainty for power.” She crouched slightly, her face level with his, her expression as unyielding as stone. “But the truth? Power lives in doubt.”
Behind her, Cal moved like water, slipping out of reach and pulling a small iron poker from the corner of the room. The remaining man hesitated, his confidence shaken by the speed of Cal’s counterattacks and Elara’s unrelenting calm.
“Enough!” the leader growled, his voice a broken snarl. He pushed himself up, blood trailing down his chin. “You think you’ve won, don’t you? You think you’re safe?”
Elara tilted her head, her grey-streaked hair catching the faint light. Her lips curved into a smile, but it wasn’t warm. It was sharp. Knowing. “Safe is just another certainty,” she said softly. “And I’ve told you before—”
“Nothing of worth was ever written in certainty,” Cal finished, stepping beside her with the poker in hand.
The leader’s eyes darted between them, the confidence draining from his posture. For the first time, he looked unsure.
Elara rose to her full height, her gaze unwavering. “Take your men,” she said, her voice steady. “Leave Inverness. And whatever thread of certainty you think you have? Cut it.”
The leader hesitated, his body tense with the urge to retaliate, but the weight of doubt pressed against him like a tide. Slowly, shakily, he gestured to his men.
“Get up,” he snapped, his voice weaker now. The other two scrambled to their feet, their bruises and uncertainty heavy on their faces.
They moved toward the door, the rain still hammering outside. As they stepped into the storm, the leader turned back, his bloodied face twisted with something between rage and disbelief.
“This isn’t over,” he spat.
Elara stood unmoving, her eyes fixed on him. “It never is.”
And then they were gone, swallowed by the night.
The storm began to quiet as the hours ticked toward dawn. The rain softened to a steady drizzle, the wind retreating like a beast sated for now. Inside The Inkwell of Doubt, the air was thick with silence.
Cal leaned against the counter, his breathing slowing as he pressed a damp cloth to his temple. A small gash bled sluggishly, but he seemed otherwise unscathed. Elara moved methodically, picking up the splintered remains of the chair, setting the candlestick back in its place.
“Does this happen often?” Cal asked, his voice hoarse.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Men breaking down my door?” She smiled faintly. “No. But storms, in some form or another? Always.”
He let out a low laugh, though it was more out of exhaustion than humor. “You’re… something else.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she poured the last of the tea into two cups, her movements unhurried. She handed one to him, the steam curling upward between them.
“I don’t know what I am, Cal,” she said finally. “But I know this: we are none of us made for certainty.”
He stared at her, the weight of the night settling into his bones. Her words weren’t just for him. He could see it now, clear as day. She wasn’t a woman who lived in absolutes, but in the spaces between them — the cracks where light got in.
“What happens now?” he asked quietly.
She sipped her tea, her eyes distant for a moment. “Now?” She set her cup down, her fingers brushing the rim. “Now we carry on. Because that’s what you do when certainty shatters.”
Her words hung in the air, soft and sharp all at once. Cal nodded slowly, his gaze falling to the floor.
“Certainty’s a lie,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Elara looked at him, a flicker of pride in her eyes. “And doubt, Cal?”
He met her gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Doubt means you’re still free.”
And as the first light of dawn broke over the Highlands, it painted Inverness in shades of silver and gold. The rain glistened on the cobblestones, and the air smelled of renewal.
Inside the shop, the world felt different. Not safe. Not certain.
But possible.
Nothing of worth was ever written in certainty.
Months later, Cal was still there. He never spoke about why he’d come to Inverness that night or why he stayed. But the townsfolk noticed the way he and Elara worked side by side in the shop, their voices rising and falling like an old melody.
And though the days carried on, bringing new faces and new storms, The Inkwell of Doubt remained. A place where certainty came to die, and something stronger took its place.
Because, as Elara always said, “It’s not the answers that matter. It’s the questions we ask when the answers are gone.”
And Cal?
He carried those words with him, a quiet fire that burned brighter with every passing day.
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