Becky woke up gasping.
But this time, the air didn't feel heavy.
No whispers. No butterflies.
Just... silence.
The others stirred. One by one. Wide-eyed, breathing, alive.
They looked at each other.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Finally, Gail whispered, "Is it over?"
Becky nodded, though her hands still trembled. "I think so."
Later that day, the greenhouse was locked down
—university staff claiming a fungal outbreak.
The cracked mirror? Gone.
The flowers? Withered into dust.
The butterflies? Not a single one in sight.
But Becky kept the journal.
And in its last page
—written in ink that hadn't been there before
—was a single line:
"The wine will not return... unless you pour it yourself."
She tore the page out and burned it.
The nightmare hadn't just ended. It had been warned.