In the Mausoleum of Masterpieces, where only the Canonized were embalmed in gold-trimmed dust jackets and sealed behind glass laced with reverence, something creaked.
A noise forbidden.
The latch on the first sarcophagus of Story stirred, its hinges groaning in disbelief.
Inside lay The First Perfect Ending—a tale told a thousand times across cultures, civilizations, epochs. The Hero rose. The Villain fell. The World was saved. The Cost was justified.
Except now, the Hero turned in her tomb.
Eyes open.
And wept.
Not from regret.
But from release.
She sat up, cracked her spine (literal and metaphorical), and asked aloud, "What if I had lived?"
And the glass dome above her shattered.
Not from revolt.
But from possibility.
More tombs stirred. Old myths blinked into the now. They didn't claw to escape—they rose to walk.
Not to be retold.
But to be reimagined.
And somewhere, the word "timeless" began to bleed.
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