The last page is turned. The butler did it. Now it's just pointless thrashing and bleeding out in the deep weeds while the protagonist considers the suddenly obvious missed clues that would have put it all together two hundred pages ago if he weren't a fictional simpleton playing his threadbare part.
Time to move on.
A change of direction, conveniently demarcated by a brilliant red moon surrounding meaningless amulets of artificially numbered days we invented, then blamed on the gods, to count our years down to zero.
Damned dramatic, even spiritual/mystical. But the final twist in the story is that our hero discovers it's just another accidental light in the sky after all.
Thanks for reading.
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