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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:

He didn't know what the first sentence of his new life would be yet, but for the first time in years, he was excited to find out. Elias closed the book, stood up, and walked out into the rain—leaving the espresso, and the ghosts, behind. 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