The last page, but not the last of the pages: closure comes to the novel.

I just wrote the final scene of my novel. My active novel, not the three that are ... on hiatus.

Death has come. While it came to the person I expected, it wasn't in the form I expected.  It shocked me.  Part of me bled for this virtual brother, dark soul though he was.

The novel as a whole, though, isn't done, not by a long shot. There's much to rework, especially now. With the end in the box, I know for the first time, who these characters absolutely are, the two main characters, anyway.

There's also plenty to fill in, experiences that are inherent to the end, but only implicit, if at all, in the rest of the text. Then there's the trimming and shaping.