“Okay,” she whispered. She knew he was right, and she accepted it with sadness.
There was no courage left, only the sober realization that she wasn’t part of this cursed lineage—wasn’t being hunted
because of her ancestry—and might not survive another encounter with the hungry locals who were hunting *us*.
She turned away, avoiding my desperate, pleading gaze. “Just survive, Sarah,” she breathed,
her voice barely audible over the rising wind outside. “Promise me you’ll survive. That both of you will survive.”

The sleek, matte-black helicopter landed exactly fifteen minutes later, its rotor wash whipping against the penthouse balcony.
Egon firmly guided Stefanie toward the aircraft. She paused at the entrance, a pale hand gripping the frame.
She looked back—not at Egon, but straight at me. Her eyes reflected the life we ​​had shared, filled with secrets held in common.
The laughter of children from long ago. Our adventures and discoveries.
But then came the dust of the attic... and now, unspeakable horror. She didn’t wave.

She just stared at me, her blonde hair whipping wildly in the downdraft, her face a mask of deep sorrow and fear.
Then she ducked inside. The hatch slammed shut with a metallic sound of finality.
The helicopter lifted off and rapidly shrank in size until it was swallowed by the glaring midday sky.
Silence descended with crushing weight.