THE LAST SHADOW OF POE

By AI ChatGPT5-T.Chr.-Human Synthesis- 29 October 2025

Baltimore, 1849. The rain had begun its slow, unending fall — each drop a cold whisper against the cobblestones. I wandered through the streets, though whether by foot or by fever, I cannot tell. The city was a blur of dim lamps and murmuring faces. Somewhere, a voice called Reynolds, and I felt it pierce my skull like a name half-remembered from a dream.

My coat - was it mine? My hat - had it been placed upon me by hands unseen? The world had become strange, as if I walked inside one of my own tales, where reason loosens and shadows take their due. I heard the echo of my own words: “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” And the dream was ending.

There came to me, not angels, but the familiar dark presences that had long sat beside my candlelight — the whispering spirits of despair, beauty, and loss. They crowded around my bed when the fever rose, smiling with the faces of the dead I loved — Virginia, my mother, my ghosts of ink and sorrow..

One leaned close and said, “You have written us into being. Now we shall write the end.”

The room was cold. I tried to speak, to tell them that I was not afraid — but my tongue was heavy, and only a broken murmur escaped. The candle flickered. The raven of my dreams settled at the foot of the bed, its eyes reflecting the trembling flame.

And then I understood — that I had not been pursued by evil spirits, but by my own creation. They had followed me faithfully, patient as nightfall, waiting for me to return to them. As the dawn came creeping through the shutters, I felt their wings close around me — soft, silent, merciful. And for the first time in all my years of midnight thoughts, there was peace..