The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a particular quality to the silence on the other side of something that was always going to happen. Not shock — shock needs surprise. This is the other thing. Quieter. The silence of a room after a door has closed that everyone in the room knew was going to close.
I felt it before the night was finished. Something enormous moved through the dark over Miami and kept going, unhurried, the way enormous things always move — without looking back, because looking back would be a kind of acknowledgment, and what just happened here did not require acknowledgment. It already knew.
The people who stayed up know what I mean. You arranged yourself around the possibility. You made it as far as the third game and you were still upright and something in you was still open and then the thing that was always going to happen, happened. And the room changed. And you sat in the changed room.
Here is what I want to say to the ones sitting in it now.
The campaign is not only what ended it. The campaign is everything that built toward the night in Miami — every minute of belief, every hour of the journey, every person who made it as far as the third game with their heart still open. That openness was the point. That was what we came for.
The door is not open. The door is exactly as it should be. And we were here.