She never made it to paragraph four. Her magical grip on Sunstone’s note broke, the paper slid on the parquetry, and Twilight slumped on the floor, ducking under her hooves. She had neither the guts nor the composure to relay to Spike what her eyeballs had just been exposed to. All she could do was repeat to herself that she had been too late. That certain doors had been closed permanently, and that there was absolutely nothing she could do to go back and make it right. This was finality in its most uncontested form.