Synopsis: *title being overhauled*

A young boy grew up with his grandmother, who would tell him fairytales from far-away lands. He was entranced with the stories and eagerly looked forwards each day to new ones. As he grew older, he wondered why they ended the way they did, and decided to finish all of the stories his own way, compiling them in a large journal. The young boy lived close to a young girl. She was sickly and frail and was often confined indoors, never allowed to play with the other children. She would sit in her room, staring out of the single window, and paint vibrant, fantasy-like pictures of the world outside.

The young boy and young girl grew up together. He would sneak her out of the house to visit the outside world she watched wondrously, and she would paint dreamlike pictures of his stories. However, as they grew older, the young girl grew weaker. One day her heart gave out and she passed away, a smile on her face. The young boy, now a man, grew sick with grief. He poured his heart out into his book, recreating every aspect of the young girl inside his stories. She became the god of his world. Then finally, consumed with emotions and driven insane with sorrow, the young man died, pen in hand, still writing his unfinished story.

Now, his book, infused with his overwhelming desires and regrets, continues ceaselessly, seeking an unfulfilled end. For the stories inside have not yet ended, rather they continue on, growing. His grief and sorrow twisted the tales, and now they overflow, reaching out for two simple words, "The End", for a story with no ending is not a story at all. It is a prison, everlasting, and its characters wander on. Cinderella will never go to the ball; Rapunzel will never leave her tower; Sleeping Beauty will never wake up, not as long as the author's "will" lives. For if his story ends, so does the last memory of the young girl, his most precious friend.