There was no longer fear in Aryan's eyes, but a burning obsession. He shook the puppet's nonsense and the old man's threats from his mind.
"If I am a story," Aryan screamed, his voice fiercer than the flames, "then I will write 'The End' of this story myself!"
And he tossed the lit lighter into the air.
The lighter spun through the air and landed straight onto the open bottles of thinner and turpentine.
A moment of silence... and then—
"BOOM!"
Blue and yellow flames erupted from the table with a massive explosion. In the blink of an eye, the fire engulfed the dry sawdust and the hanging puppets.
The old man screamed, "No! My children! My world!"
Forgetting Aryan, he ran frantically to extinguish the flames, but the fire was already out of control.
Aryan watched the "Aryan puppet" burn. As the fire scorched the puppet's face, Aryan felt a sudden, searing burn in his own chest. It felt as if his own skin was on fire. He groaned in pain and collapsed to his knees.
"Was he telling the truth? Am I really...?"
But he shook his head. "No, it's just an illusion. I have to get out of here!"
Smoke filled the air. The sound of the burning puppets sounded like hundreds of children screaming in unison. Crackle... snap...
The old man was now surrounded by flames. He was hugging his burning puppets and laughing—a painful, maniacal laugh.
"We will burn together... we will all burn together!"
Aryan mustered his remaining strength and sprinted toward the iron ladder leading up. The smoke was choking him, and the heat of the fire scorched his back.
He grabbed the rungs and began to climb.
Below, the workshop had turned into a hellscape. The wooden beams of the ceiling began to crack.
As Aryan reached the top, he saw the ladder ended at a manhole-like cover. He slammed his shoulder against the lid and pushed with all his might.
The lid was heavy, but Aryan's life was on the line.
"Open up!" he screamed.
With one final heave, the lid gave way. A blast of cold, fresh air hit his face.
Aryan hauled himself up and rolled onto the wet grass.
He had emerged in the garden outside the villa.
Looking back, he saw flames leaping from the windows. The old, cursed house was now burning like a giant torch.
Aryan was safe... or so he thought.
He was lying on the ground, gasping for breath, when he suddenly felt something heavy in his pocket.
With trembling hands, he reached into his pocket and pulled the object out.
Aryan's breath hitched.
It was the same leather diary—"My Last Mistake."
The one he had left in the room, the one that should have burned in the fire. How did it get into his pocket?
And the last page of the diary fluttered open on its own in the wind.
On it was written:
"The story isn't over, Aryan... only one chapter has burned. Turn the page."