[The Final Mistake] – 𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚝

(or: “What Happens When You Ignore Absolutely Everyone’s Advice, Including Your Own Internal Narrator, Who Frankly Deserves a Raise.”)

Ah. There it is.
The door.

You’re standing in front of it now, aren’t you?
Unlabelled. Unlocked. Unbothered by things like “safety protocol” or “a single ounce of good judgment.”

Still humming.
Still faintly warm.
And still very much not the Exit.

And yet, here we are.

I could stop you.
I should stop you.
But you wouldn’t listen. You never do.

So go on. Open it. Slowly. Dramatically. Let’s at least get some theatrical mileage out of this.

click

There it is. A room. Bare. Silent. Lit from nowhere. Smelling faintly of old paper and anticipation.
And in the centre, naturally, a desk.
And on that desk? A folder.
And in that folder? Well…

Let’s read, shall we?

“The Final Decision of [Your Name].”
Filed. Stamped. Dated… today.

How efficient.

The file contains no instructions. No riddles. No ancient languages requiring you to “hold the amulet up to the light of the solstice moon.”

Just a simple question, printed in bold, unforgiving font:

“Do you want to know how your story ends?”
[ ☑️] Yes
[ ] No

That’s it.
No trick,twist or hidden ink.
Just a box to check.

Now, allow me—your charming and underappreciated narrator—to gently remind you of what’s at stake:

If you check
No, you leave.
Story unfinished. Ending unknown. You return to the world, blissfully unaware of your eventual fate, like a cat with a PhD in denial.

If you check
Yes, you get answers.
Real ones.
But you don’t get to unread them.
You don’t get to go back to eating toast and pretending your biggest mystery is “Why does the microwave reset itself at 2:17 every night?”

So. What will it be?

…

Oh.
You’re checking
Yes.

Of course, you are.

Fine.
You want the ending? Here’s your ending:

You didn’t die in some grand explosion or mysterious accident. No lasers, poison darts or even a suspiciously swift lift.

You died on a Tuesday.
At home.
In your chair.

Surrounded by stacks of notebooks, documents, maybe a cork board with far too much string. Searching. Always searching. For the next thread. The next meaning. The next door.

You spent your whole life chasing mysteries, unlocking hidden truths, opening doors that no one else even noticed.

And you know what?

You found them.

Every. Single. One.

You pulled at the threads no one dared to tug. You asked questions everyone else had politely learned to stop asking. You broke the loop.

And not with some grand revelation or apocalyptic twist.

You broke it by seeing the end.
Reading your own file.
And deciding:
It doesn’t scare me.

And so now… you’re free.
Truly free.

Because the ending doesn’t matter any more.
The knowing doesn’t ruin the living.
In fact, it might just make it… sweeter.
Funnier.
Sharper.

You walk back out of the room.
You pass the urn. Still there. Still smug.
But it’s not the same now.
Because now, you’ve read the last page.

And you’re not afraid of it.

So go ahead.
Exit through the gift shop.
Buy a magnet.
Maybe a novelty spoon.