On the morning of the seventh day, I found him in the sunroom, staring out at the mist on the lake. I carried Caleb’s journal in my hand, a tangible weight.“My time is up,” I said. My voice was calm, rinsed clean by the night’s tears. “I’m leaving.”He turned. The desperation on his face had hardened into a kind of fatalistic resolve. He didn’t plead. Instead, he walked to a polished walnut cabinet, unlocked it, and drew out a single object: a sleek, nickel-plated revolver.My breath hitched, but I didn’t move.He opened the cylinder, showed me the six empty chambers. From his pocket, he produced a single, golden bullet. He slid it into a chamber, spun the cylinder with a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist, and snapped it shut. The final, metallic click echoed in the silent room.He placed the gun on the low table between us.“A final gamble,” he said, his voice eerily flat. “My life against your mercy. One chance in six. If the chamber is empty when I pull, you stay another day. We
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