And now.
The last page.
In front of Canterlot High School, there was a statue of a horse, stood atop a rectangular pedestal of stone.
And, scattered across the ground in front of the pedestal, shards of glass twinkled under the starlight. Little jagged mirrors, dropped in disarray. A few were marked with small drops of blood.
The sledgehammer leaning against the pedestal was much the same. As was this last page. Glass was such a dangerous substance.
It hurts, the words on the page say. I hoped it wouldn’t, but I think I knew it would.
But it’s done.
A corner of the page was crumpled—a weary brow had fallen upon it, labored breaths warming the paper.
I hope I don’t miss her.