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Chapter 10
It's not the moment of leaving that's difficult. It's the moment before. When everything is still there, but already quieter. Mollie stood on a hill, where heaven and earth are barely distinguishable. Behind him lay the Valley of Words, the Cloud Archive, the empty book. In front of him – nothing to see. Only a horizon, open like a question. He sat down. The tortoise was there again, as if it had been expecting him. Her coat was wrinkled from sitting, but her eyes were as clear as the first day. "You know you won't go back," she said. "I know," Mollie replied. "And yet I want to remember." The tortoise nodded. "Then don't remember places. Remember what you left there." Mollie thought of the word that had flown. Of the forbidden story. Of the map of light. Of the book that had written itself. He thought of silence, full of meaning. And of questions that needed no answers. Then he took the book out again. It was almost full. Not with pages – but with moments. On the last page stood only one sentence: "Not everything that ends is an end." He turned back. And felt: Nothing was lost. Not the green at the bus stop. Not the butterfly. Not the voice of the old stories. He looked at the tortoise. "What comes next?" She smiled. "You're leaving. But not going away." And as Mollie rose, the ground beneath him began to glow – not brightly, but warmly. A new path emerged, not drawn, but felt. He didn't look back once. Because how you leave often says more than that you're leaving.
