It was always blank, the very last page of a book. Tina found this almost incomprehensibly sad. She always had. She always will. The sort of sadness that if you tried to explain it would simply dissipate away as soon as it left your lips, like your breath in winter. The sort of sadness that if you tried to alleviate it by filling all that emptiness in with words of your own would only get worse and worse until you could not look.

So she treasured it for herself. Her own secret sadness. It was nice knowing it was there. She could look at it whenever she wanted to. Look away when she’d had enough.

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Notes:

1. Written on January 1st, 2022
2. This is the last chapter of the pointlessly palindromic sequence started here.
3. 30 odd tales ago.

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