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He didn't write a poem. He didn't draft a plan. Instead, he took his pen and wrote two words at the very top, in letters so bold they felt like a heartbeat:

Elias looked at the notebook. He felt the weight of it—the literal weight of his past. With a hand that trembled only slightly, he gripped the corner of the next page. It was ivory, blank, and smelled faintly of cedar. NГ¤chstes Kapitel

The clock on the wall of the "Café am Rande" didn’t tick; it hummed, a low vibration that Elias felt in his teeth. On the scarred wooden table sat a leather-bound notebook, its edges frayed and darkened by the oils of his palms. He didn't write a poem

"The thing about books," she said, leaning against the counter, "is that the spine only holds so many pages. If you keep reading the same one, you’re not a reader anymore. You’re just a statue." She walked away before he could respond. He felt the weight of it—the literal weight of his past

"You’re at the end of the ink?" she asked softly, nodding toward the book.