The weird thing about finishing a novel is realizing the characters didn’t get the memo.

PRIMACY is done. The file is exported, the cover is live, the story has its ending. But my head still sounds like Berlin at midnight with wolves pacing, wires humming and ghosts of the people I made refusing to shut up.

You spend years in that world, and suddenly you’re supposed to move on. Write the next thing. Sell the current thing. Pretend the emotional hangover is just caffeine withdrawal. But endings don’t really end. They echo. They sneak into new stories wearing different names.

So here’s to quiet Saturdays after the storm. To the people who will follow this book into the dark and find something worth keeping. And to the voices that won’t quite fade because maybe that’s the point. Maybe stories aren’t supposed to stop talking once you close the last page.

Time to refill the coffee and see what world starts whispering next.

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