You know how they say your favourite book or film doesn’t have to end well. Art is a reflection of life and life’s stories seldom end on a high… But these stories have to end well, you see. For in turning the last page, her heart in her throat, or sitting alone in an empty dark room long after the credits for the film were shown, she carried a little bit of those few hours home, and then again unknowingly she tried to be a little like her favourite story on screen; or maybe swore to someday taking a trip to the very place the story had unfolded. And in tracing those steps years later, believing it to be the place where everything worked out in the end, a hope she couldn’t derive from where she came. The empty cottage and pine trees smelled of yellowing pages and late nights. No matter its story, she gave it a new one, that girl at the movies, living the story played out in front of her; found closure at last, from the longing that had risen years before when she had turned the final page. And another story ended well.
These stories have to end well, you see.