They are just tools.
And they no longer worked.
My phone buzzed softly with a calendar reminder for dinner that evening—Priya, Aunt Nila, and two colleagues coming over. Real people. Safe people. Chosen people.
I smiled and stood, carrying my mug inside.
At the doorway, I paused and glanced back once at the garden, at the open sky beyond the wall, at the life waiting for me.
Then I stepped in and locked the door behind me—not out of fear, but out of peace.
Because this home was mine.
This future was mine.
And for the first time in my life, so was the ending.
The end.
