The moments would not bleed.
Because they were not fat to be trimmed.
They were bone.
Memory.
The marrow of a life that didn't ask to be plot-efficient.
And so the Pit, once so sure in its disdain, began to quake. The discarded scenes whispered to one another. A picnic that never led to war. A friendship that didn't fracture for stakes. A glance across a courtyard that meant everything and nothing and wasn't followed by a kiss.
All rose.
All stood.
All refused to apologize for their existence.
And somewhere, a pacing chart caught fire. Not as a rebellion.
As a requiem.
---
In the Crypt of Closure, where every story was embalmed with neat conclusions, the lids buckled.
Tombs once sealed with final lines and full-circle endings hissed with escaping air. The corpses of completion stirred uneasily in their narrative sleep.
Hira entered barefoot, tracking dust from half-told dreams.
An archivist approached her, trembling beneath robes stitched from threads of resolution.
