Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
Death Of Peace Mind: The One Who Knew The Ending.
What happens when the detective realizes he's been chasing himself all along? In our penultimate episode of Death of Peace of Mind, Detective Walter Grayson faces his most disturbing revelation yet—an envelope addressed to himself, written in his own hand, containing a confession he doesn't remember writing.
The cold Chicago winter forms the perfect backdrop as Grayson and Black descend into the precinct archives, where forgotten cases lie buried under decades of dust. What they discover isn't just evidence of crimes past, but something more personal and terrifying: connections to Brookwell, polaroids with Grayson's shadow in the corner, and ledgers that all end with the same cryptic phrase. Their investigation leads them back to the cemetery where headstones bear riddles instead of names, including one marked with Black's name but no death date—just waiting.
At the heart of this psychological thriller lies the Briar House, where a basement reveals a spiral painted in fresh red, and a mirror that shows multiple reflections of Grayson moving before he does. The culmination comes when Grayson finally opens the envelope to find the words "The Green Briar is the ending" written in his own hand. The true horror isn't supernatural but existential—the realization that we can't outrun what we refuse to face.
Beyond the gripping narrative, this episode explores profound questions about silence, accountability, and inevitability. Every unspoken truth, every avoided conversation, every lie we tell ourselves eventually returns, signing our name in red ink. As Grayson discovers, "The ending is never outside of you. It's in your own hand, on the page."
What spiral are you walking in? What envelope are you carrying in silence? Join us for this penultimate episode that will leave you questioning what reflections you might be avoiding in your own mirror. Subscribe, share with a friend, and break your own spiral before it circles back to you.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode nine. We're in episode nine, guys, it's crazy. We're almost there. We're in episode nine of the death of peace of mind. So let's go ahead and let's get into the cold opening.
Speaker 1:Chicago, january 1988. The city isn't alive, it's braced. Snow piles along the sidewalks, gray from exhaust, ice webs across windshields and gutters. The river is a frozen vein cutting through the skyline. Wind slams down alleys sharp enough to draw blood. Grayson drives through it slow wipers dragging against the windshield smeared with salt. His breath fogs the glass as much as the smoke curling from his cigarette.
Speaker 1:The dash clock blinks 12.04am, a new year, but nothing's changed. The radio crackles through, static, then lands hard on Echo and the Bunnymen the killing moon. The guitar shimmers like frost crackling under bootsteps. Fate up against your will. Grayson mutters figures like the song's been waiting on him.
Speaker 1:The road takes him south, past warehouses iced, over, past factories, bleeding rust into the snow. At the edges of the city, where the streetlight's thin, the briarhouse awaits. It hasn't collapsed, it hasn't even shifted. It just stands there, defiant, like it survived the storm by gritting its teeth. The porch sags under snow. Windows stare blank and white Icicles hang like knives from the eaves.
Speaker 1:Grayson kills the engine. The silence after the radio dies feels louder than the song. He steps out, boots crunching on hard-packed ice. The wind slices across his face, bitter and metallic. His cigarette trembles between his fingers but he doesn't drop it. He takes a drag and lets the smoke drift into the freezing air.
Speaker 1:The house doesn't look dead, it looks patient. The porch groans under his weight. Wood brittle with ice. Each step sounds doubled. As the house is talking with him, the front door is unlocked. Of course it is Inside colder than out, kind of cold that sinks into the bones, not from weather but from absence. Dust of cold that sinks into the bones, not from weather but from absence. Dust and mildew choke the air. Wallpaper peeled into frozen curls, furniture squats under sheets stiff with age. The smell cuts deeper than rot Old smoke, leather and something sweet gone, rancid.
Speaker 1:Grayson lights his cigarette again. Flame shivering in the draft. The glow brushes the walls. That's when he sees the carvings, not graffiti, a tent. The same hand from Brockwell, the same hand from the ledger. You knew before. You knew. The ending is always the beginning. Wg. The flame is always the beginning WG. The sling sputters out, the initials glow in the dark. Anyways, the slash W and jagged R burned into the wood like they've been waiting for him. The song hasn't stopped. It's fainter now, as though the walls themselves are humming. The pillaring moon loops back on itself, first repeating Fate, up against your will.
Speaker 1:The living room is stripped bare, except for a chair in the center, bolted to the floor. Leather straps hang limp, stiff with age, like veins frozen in place. Grayson's fingers brush at the armrest. It's warm. He flinches back. Sound drifts down from upstairs, the scrape of a chair leg.
Speaker 1:He stares at the staircase. Shadows spill like oil across the wall. His light flickers, but the flame won't hold another scrape louder. His throat tightens something or someone is waiting. His light flickers, but the flame won't hold Another scrape louder. His throat tightens Something or someone is waiting. The stairs groan under his boots. Every step feels like it should collapse, but it doesn't. The wood holds almost like the house is carrying him.
Speaker 1:The hallway upstairs is lined with doors, some shut, some open, each scarred with words carved deep Wait, remember, end. The final door stands at the hallway's end. Fresh carvings slice across it, edges raw, still flaking. His lighter catches once enough to see the green briar waits. The letters burn in the dark. The scrape comes again right behind the door. Grayson leans in forehead, pressed to the wood. His hand spreads across the letters. The door is ice cold but his skin burns against it. The house holds its breath and for the first time he whispers, a thing he's been circling since Brockwell. Not a question, not a plea, a confession. I already know how this ends. The song swells, ema Cullis' voice, jagged, fatal, under a blue moon. I saw you. Soon you'll take me. The scrape stops. The house goes silent.
Speaker 1:Part One, the Records Room. The precinct sleeps. In January. Most of the desks upstairs sit empty phones, quiet typewriters covered with sheets.
Speaker 1:The real work has moved here down in the archives. The air is colder than outside a basement, pretending it's a morgue. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering every few seconds like they tried and are tired of holding on. Rows of file cabinets line the room tallest coffins, metal scarred and dented from decades of use, dust coats. The tops thick but the drawers still creak open when pulled, grayson lights another cigarette smoke rising in the cold air like breath. Even down here he excels fog in front of him From somewhere above faint but steady, the muffled pulse of a new order. Blue Monday filters down the baseline, thumps like a heartbeat through the wall. How does it feel to treat me like you do? Grayson mutters like a funeral march.
Speaker 1:Black doesn't smile, surety, elbow deep in a drawer marked 1975-1979. Closed investigations, papers, rustle, folders, slap. Her little jacket creaks when she shifts. Half these files should have been destroyed. She says they keep everything. Grayson replies, dragging on his smoke, even the things they pretend never happen.
Speaker 1:They work in silence for a while. Only sounds are the scuffle of paper baseline bleeding through the ceiling and occasional cough. When dust chokes the air. Black freezes at one folder coffee ring on the cover, the dust disturbed, smudged by fresh fingerprints. She holds it up. Someone's been down here. Grayson stubs his cigarette against the cabinet, ass scattering Recently the folder creaks open Inside names, addresses, case notes, all tied to Brookwell.
Speaker 1:Black flips faster. Her breath is tight. Then stops A page, half-erased, bank smeared but legible, walter Grayson. A minutes record Underneath scribbled in red ink Breyer. Grayson's chest locks. His hand hovers but he doesn't touch it. Black studies him. You want to explain this? He shakes his head slow. I can't. You mean you won't. The music upstairs swells, synths pounding harder. Now I stand here waiting.
Speaker 1:Grayson pulls another drawer. This one sticks halfway. He yanks harder. It shrieks, then gives sliding open. Files spill onto the floor, pages fanning out across the tile like wings. Black kneels picking them up one by one.
Speaker 1:Her hand stops on an envelope thick, sealed, yellowed at the edges Across the front and red ink. Detective Grayson open. Last she hands it over. Recognize the handwriting. Grayson stares. The W is slashed, the G is jagged. His own hand, I don't remember writing. This Doesn't mean you didn't. The envelope feels heavier than paper, should? He turns it over in his hands, thumb brushing the seal. The cigarette burns down to the filter. He doesn't open it, not yet, because the moment he does, the riddle stop being riddles and start becoming evidence. The cabinet drawer slides shut on its own. The metal clang echoes through the room. Black jerks upright, flashlight beam sweeping the rows. What the hell? Grayson exhales, eyes locked on the envelope. It doesn't want to stay closed. The music upstairs drops into silence, the baseline cuts off mid-beat and the archives are swallowed by the kind of quiet that doesn't wait for permission.
Speaker 1:Part Two the Ledger of Endings. The envelope sits heavy in Grayson's coat pocket, but neither of them mentions it. They move deeper into their archives. Instead, past rows of cabinets in the corridor most detectives don't even know exist. At the end of the hall, a locked cage door, rusted chain padlock, older than both of them, the kind of lock that's less about keeping thieves out and more about keeping something in. Black shines her flashlight through the bars. What is this place? Grayson exhales smoke, the glow of his cigarette briefly lighting the dark, sensitive records Stuff they don't want, found but can't burn. She smirks bitter, sounds like you. The padlock looks solid, but when Grayson yanks it the shackle snaps like it already is broken. Shane clatters to the floor, the sound echoing far too loud in the silence.
Speaker 1:Inside, the air drops ten degrees, colder than outside, colder than the rest of the archives. It's not just the storage, it's a freezer for memory. Rows of shells bow under the weight of thick ledgers. Dust hangs heavy, distributed only by their breath. From somewhere above, faint but steady music leaks through the vents, warped, distorted but recognizable. The cure prayers for the rain, the opening chord drift like a dridge, hollow and stretched. You shatter me. You grip on me and hold on me so dull it kills. Black rubs her arms through her jacket. Why does it always know what to play. Grayson doesn't answer because she's right.
Speaker 1:They split without speaking, scanning shelves, pulling down ledgers. The leather covers are cracked, spines broken, but inside the ink is still sharp. Each ledger is a case record, names, dates, summaries, but none of them are complete. Everyone ends the same way Mid-sentence words trailing into nothing. Black flips a page, frowning. Every file just stops.
Speaker 1:Grayson turns one toward her, the last line, the one who knew the ending. The next page is blank. He pulls another same thing, and another and another. Every ledger ends the same phrase. Black's voice drops. What the hell does that mean? Racer runs his fingers across the words. The ink isn't just black. Some lines are scrawled and red, jagged and rushed, his handwriting Wordle stuffed into the margins.
Speaker 1:What is an ending but a door unmarked? What is a truth but silence rehearsed? What is Walter, but the one who remembers wrong? His chest tightens. I've seen this before. He mutters. Black snaps her head toward him when he stares at the page, dreams, nightmares, I don't know anymore. The music swells, robert Smith's voice curling through the vents. I suffocate. I breathe in dirt. The words hang heavy, settling into the room like dust. Black slams one of the ledgers shut, the crack, echoing. You need to start telling me which side you're on, walter, detective, suspect, patient, pick one.
Speaker 1:Grayson lights another cigarette with a hand that isn't steady. His voice is gravel. What if I'm all three? She doesn't reply because she's starting to believe it. A thud breaks the silence. They both spin flashlights cutting across the shelves. A box has fallen from the top, landing hard Its lid, popping off paper scattered Flutter and clasp the floor like pale birds. Grayson crouches picks one up A Polaroid, victor Ramos, dead in the freezer. Another, eli Mathers, mouth open, eye-u-slip stuffed inside. Another, mary Blink, eyes open, rosen in an alley. Every victim, everyone caught in the moment of death. But every photo has the same detail In the corner, faint but visible, a shadow, grayson's shadow. Black's hand flies to her mouth. Her flashlights tremble. Tell me, tell me, this isn't you. Tell me, this isn't you, gray. Grayson's cigarette falls to the floor, then Berhissa's out of contact. He doesn't pick it up because he can't answer her silence. Answer for him.
Speaker 1:Part three the graveyard return. The polaroids scatter across the archive floor, but neither of them bends to gather them. The silence in the cage feels thick, like the room itself is holding its breath. Finally, black snaps the box shut and kicks it back against the shelf. We're not staying here. Grayson doesn't argue. His eyes are still locked on the shadow burned in every photo, his shadow. They step back into the night.
Speaker 1:Chicago's January air cuts sharper than the basement. Cold Snow flurries drift onto the street, lamps melting on their coats before turning to ice. Their precinct lights fade behind them. Grayson drives without speaking. The foliage flash in his head every time he blinks. Every riddle carved in the red ink now feels like a caption. Black finally breaks. We're going back, aren't we? He exhales smoke through the cracked window. Graves don't stay quiet, she mutters. Neither do you.
Speaker 1:Rockwell's cemetery looks different than the snow. The mist is gone, replaced by frost clinging to the iron. Neither do you Tilt. Some broken, others buried to their necks in ice. But the carvings are still there.
Speaker 1:Not names, not dates, riddles Chiseled deep into the stone faces, the words blackened by frost. Raisin brushes, the snow from one marker. Phrase glows pale under the moonlight. What is an ending, but a door unmarked? Another stone. What is truth, but silence rehearsed? Another. What is Walter, but the one who remembers wrong? His throat burns with every word. Black circles a few rows away. Her flashlight beam cuts across one stone. She stops dead, walter. He crosses over. She sees the name etched into the marble Laura Black. Below it, no date, just a dash Waiting. Her hand shakes as she touches it. Why is my name here, grace? And exhale smoke curling into the freezing air Because the riddles aren't finished.
Speaker 1:The wind rises. It carries sound with it. Music, faint, distant but familiar. New order, your silent face. The synths bleed through the cemetery like a hymn. You caught me at a bad time, so why don't you piss off? The lyrics drift across the stones's cruel and its plainness. Black shivers. Why that song?
Speaker 1:Grayson lights another cigarette. His hand barely steady, because it knows we're listening. They press deeper into the rose. The graves form a spiral, now the markers aligned in a pattern too deliberate for an accident. At the center, a fresh mound of earth. Snow clings to it in sheets, but the soil beneath is dark and unsettled. A headstone jaunts from the top. Not marble, not granite. Wood Crude. The carving across it is sharp and red. Wg. Grayson's legs lock. The scrap drops in the snow.
Speaker 1:Black's breath hitches it's your grave. He crouches, glove brushing the soil. It's soft, loose, freshly dug. A sound rises beneath the music. It's low and steady, not thunder, not wind. Shovels Digging the ground vibrates under his hand vibrates Again and again. He jerks back, stumbling.
Speaker 1:The song swells, bernard Summers' voice cutting through the air. Why don't you be happy instead of being sad? The lyrics twist, mocking. The earth trembles again. Something beneath is still working, still digging. Black grabs his arm, yanking him back. Walter, we need to leave. But he doesn't move. His eyes are locked on the soil, the vibration crawling up through the ground into his bones. His voice cracks. It's not where they buried me. It's not where they buried me. The wind howls, the music crashes louder, the grave shudders once more.
Speaker 1:Then goes still Part Four. The Briar House Returns. The cemetery doesn't answer them, it only holds its silence like a blade. By the time they leave, black's flashlight is dimming the beam and narrow cone in the snow. The boots crunch over frost, breath puffing white. Neither speaks. The name on her headstone follows them back to the car. The city slides by in silence. Factories loom like frozen skeletons. Windows, dark Smokestacks iced over the wipers squeal across the windshield, smearing grime into the pale streaks. Finally, grayson exhales smoke and mutters we're going back. Black doesn't ask where. She already knows the briar house. It's worse in winter.
Speaker 1:The porch sags under snow, icicles knifing down the eaves. Windows are frosted over but faint streaks cut through like something warm, pressed against the glass from inside. The air smells sharper here, metallic, like iron left too long in the cold. Black pulls her jacket tighter. Why does it feel like it's waiting? Black pulls her jacket tighter. Why does it feel like it's waiting? Grace inflicts his lighter flame, bending in the wind. Because it is Inside. The air doesn't drop in temperature, it shifts.
Speaker 1:The house exhales around them, floorboards creaking as though it recognizes their weight. Each windowpane has been marked. Carvings etched into frostingers, traced but too precise to be accidental. Riddles spider-rub across the glass. What is an ending but a confession? Be rehearsed. What is a confession but the beginning Again, greenbrier speaks. Letters grow faint in the moonlight, black whispers. This wasn't there last time. Grayson excels smoke in the moonlight, black whispers. This wasn't there last time. Grayson exhales smoke in the frozen room. It wasn't supposed to be.
Speaker 1:From upstairs the sound comes again the scrape of a chair leg, slow, deliberate, black tenses. God, not this again. But the house adds something new Music, faint at first, drifting from above, warped through the cracked beams and plaster. Depeche Mode, blasphemous rumors. The synth crawls down the staircase, sharp and metallic. Girl of sixteen, whole life ahead of her. The lyrics warp in the air, echoing until it sounds less like a song and more like a testimony. Black mutters it's mocking us. Grayson shakes his head. It's testifying.
Speaker 1:They climb the stairs. Each groan of wood lands like a verdict. At the top, the hallway stretches longer than before. Doors multiplying, each one carved with words Wait, rememberors multiplying Each one carved with words Wait, remember, end. The final door bears a fresh carving raw on the wood. First door. Last time Grayson runs his fingers across the grooves, they sting cold, burning his skin From inside. The scrape comes again, louder, closer, the song swells, david Gahan's voice cutting through like scripture. I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors, but I think that God's got a sick sense of humor. The lyric hangs heavy in the hallway, shaking the dust from the ceiling. Black grips his sleeve Don't open it. Grayson leans closer, forehead, pressed to the wood. His breath fogs against the panel. His whisper is barely audible. This is where it ends. The scrape stops. The house waits.
Speaker 1:Part 5. The Basement? The door doesn't open, it just sits in silence, colder than the wood should have been. Grayson and Black step back, but the sound doesn't open. It just sits in silence, colder than the wood should have been. Grayson and Black step back, but the sound doesn't fade. It slides downward into the floor, into the basement. The stairwell is narrow and damp, the smell of mildew sharp as acid. Their boots echo hollow on the steps. Water drips somewhere in the dark. The deeper they go, the warmer their air becomes, not comforting but suffocating Heat that feels like breath against their skin.
Speaker 1:The basement opens wide, larger than the house above should allow. Smut walls cracked from frost, pipe-sweating rust. In the center, a spiral Painted on the floor in red, fresh, wet enough to glisten under the flashlights. Grayson crouches, his cigarette trembles between his fingers. The spiral isn't random, it's exact. Each turn inward leads to the middle. The cracked mirror. Tall, jagged, its frame bolted to the wall, splinted glass throws the reflections into shards. Shards.
Speaker 1:Black appears fractured in five pieces, each one staring back at her from a different angle. Grayson's reflection, though, doesn't scatter, it multiplies Three of them, four, each lit a cigarette glowing in different hands, each face looking back with the same exhaustion. Music hums low from somewhere in the basement. Not a record player, not a radio, just there Talking heads once in a lifetime. The baseline slides like water. David Byrne's voice, warped and distant. You may find yourself in a strange house. Black whispers, it knows we're here. Grayson shakes his head. It's telling us we've been here, we've always been here.
Speaker 1:They circle the spiral, flashlights cutting across the walls, more riddles scrolled and read Moda is memory, but a script rehearsed. What is a script? But a verdict waiting. The greenbrier waits. The paint is still wet. Black touches the wall, Pulls her hand back fast. Red stains her glove. This was written tonight.
Speaker 1:Grayson excels. Smoke watching. His reflections Excel back in perfect synced. Or tomorrow.
Speaker 1:At the spiral center, he stands before the mirror. The cracked glass trembles faintly, as though it's breathing. He leans in close, the face multiply again. Each reflection whispers something different. You were the patient, you were the detective, you were the liar, you were the briar. His hand presses against the glass. It's warm. Black inks him back Don't touch it.
Speaker 1:But the spiral hums louder, the song swells. Byrne's voice cut, cutting, jagged through the basement. You may ask yourself Well, well, how did I get here? The lyric bounces across the walls, mocking and holy all at once. Grayson stares at his fractured faces. His voice cracks because I brought myself. The spiral gleams red. The mirror vibrates harder and for a split second his reflections move. Before he does, they grin, part 6. The Envelope, the reflections, don't stop grinning, not even the flashlight beam cuts away. They stay in the glass. Lips curled, smoke curling from their mouths that aren't his.
Speaker 1:Grayson stumbles back from the spiral. His boots smear with wet paint, red streaks dragging across the floor. Black studies him with a hand on his arm. Enough, we're leaving. But the basement doesn't agree. The spiral hums faint, almost electric.
Speaker 1:The mirrors pulse like a heartbeat and Grayson remembers the weight in his pocket, the envelope. He pulls it free. Yellowed, heavy Edges curl like it's been waiting decades Across the front and red ink, detective Grayson Open last. Black sees it. Her eyes sharpen that's one from the archives. He nods slow. His thumb brushes the seal.
Speaker 1:The basement holds still like it's waiting for him. He tears it open. The sound rips through the silence like thunder. Inside, a single sheet, not typed, not printed, handwritten His handwriting. The words slash across the page in red, the green briar is the ending. Below it a signature Walter Grayson. His chest seizes the cigarette shakes between his lips.
Speaker 1:Black steps closer Walter, when did you write this? He whispers. I don't know, but the mirror knows. Reflections lean forward, all of them. Their mouths move in perfect synced, whispering the same line you knew before you knew. The spiral grows brighter, red, bleeding across the cement. The riddles on the walls rearrange letters, crawling like insects. What is the ending but a confession? What is the confession, but a name? The ringbriar speaks. The mirror trembles. One cracks widen, splitting his face into jagged shards. Black grips his sleeve. Her voice fierce Fight it. Whatever this is, it wants you to give in. Racing Excel smokes, voice hoarse. It doesn't want me to give in. It wants me to admit I already did.
Speaker 1:The music swells, not from speakers, but from the spiral itself. David Bowie, ashes to ashes. The synths shimmer through the basement. Otherworldly, inevitable. Do you remember a guy that's been in such an early song? The lyrics echo like prophecy.
Speaker 1:The reflections grin wider, the spiral's pulse. Red Envelope trembles in his hand. He looks down at the page again his own name, his own confession. I wrote this, he mutters. I signed it. Black's voice cracks. Then tell me why he doesn't answer. Because he can't. The spiral answers for him. It's hum, rising into a roar. The mirror shatters, glass explodes, outward shards spinning across the basement, each piece catches a reflection of him. Dozens of graces shattered across the cement, smoke curling from all their mouths. The music crashes, boy's voice sharp and final. Ashes to ashes, funk to funky. We know Major Tom's a jenky. The spiral burns bright. The envelope slips from his hand, landing in the wet paint. The words blur red.
Speaker 1:Grayson's Monologue Endings aren't surprises, they're circles. People like to believe in sudden shocks, like one night can flip everything on its head, like one revelation can erase years of silence. But the truth is endings don't arrive out of nowhere. They creep, they stalk. They sit in the corner of every room waiting for you to finally look at them. And when you do, it doesn't feel like discovery, it feels like recognition. Tonight I opened an envelope sealed decades ago with my own handwriting scrawled across it. The words weren't clever, they weren't even complicated, they were final. The green briar is the ending, signed Walter Grayson. You want to know what that feels like To find your own confession written in a hand you don't remember moving Feels like deja vu sharpened into a blade. It feels like realizing.
Speaker 1:Every riddle I've ever chased wasn't meant to taunt me, it was meant to corner me. The spiral in the basement wasn't new. I've walked it before, I've traced it in smoke rings and IOU slips and led've walked it before. I've traced it in smoke rings, in IOU slips, in ledgers, burned and buried. I've carried it in my chest like a second set of lungs. Every time I thought I was stepping forward. I was only looping back Every lead, every body, every silence. It wasn't progress, it was a rehearsal, and rehearsals always end the same with the performance you've been avoiding. That's what. Tonight was the show, the final act, and the actor me, always me.
Speaker 1:The problem is I don't remember writing those words, I don't remember carving those riddles. I don't remember leaving Polaroids with my shadow in the corner. But memory isn't proof of innocence. Memory is just the version of the story you can live with. And if I've learned anything this year, it's that silence carves deeper than the truth, because the truth only wounds once. Silence kills you every night. Black doesn't believe me, not yet she still thinks there's another way. This could play. Another suspect, another ghost in the machine. But her name was already on a headstone. She saw it, she touched it. The riddle doesn't just want me, it wants witnesses, someone to carry the silence after I'm gone. That's why she's here, that's why she was written to this script before either of us meant. Because what good is a confession without someone to hear it.
Speaker 1:I've been asking myself the wrong question, not who the Greenbrier is, not even why does he kill? The real question is this when did I start writing the ending? Was it the first time I let Ramos off the hook, thinking leverage was cleaner than justice? Was it the night Eli Mathers begged and I didn't listen? Was it when I watched Mary Blake walk away and choose not to follow? Or was it earlier, before the badge, before Brookwell, when I first learned silence could keep a man alive longer than the truth ever would? Maybe the ending didn't begin in some alley or basement. Maybe it began the first time I decided silence was easier than speaking, and everybody since has just been a punctuation.
Speaker 1:The envelope wasn't a revelation. It was a reminder, a note from the past self to the man I am now. Stop pretending. You don't know the answer. And the answer is simple. It's brutal.
Speaker 1:Endings aren't written by fate. They're written by the one who carves the riddle, and I've been carving all along. So what am I supposed to do with this? Keep chasing shadows until the spiral swallows me. Pretend the name on the page isn't mine. Pretend the reflection on the glass. Doesn't smile Back when I don't I. I can't Because the ending is already here and maybe the choice, the only choice I have left isn't whether I'm the detective is already here, and maybe the choice, the only choice I have left isn't whether I'm the detective or the killer. Maybe the only choice left is how long I'll keep lying about being both. The Greenbrier isn't someone I catch. The Greenbrier isn't someone I can stop. The Greenbrier is the ending, and I'm the one who knew it all along. The Greenbrier is the ending and I'm the one who knew it all along the Greenbrier Code.
Speaker 1:There is no mystery in endings, only inevitability. Men chase answers like dogs, chasing their tails, panting desperate, believing if they bite down hard enough they'll catch the thing that's been mocking them. But endings don't run, they don't hide. They sit patient, waiting for you to circle back around and when you finally collapse at their feet, gasping, thinking you've uncovered something, all you've done is you turn to where you've started, and that's why endings feel familiar, because they are. The detectives call that a case, the priests call it a sin, the philosophers call it fate. I call it the circle, the spiral, the ledger that never stops collecting interest. I've walked every line of it written, every riddle in the margins Every time they thought they were following me. They're only walking the path I left for them back into themselves. That's the joke, that's the cruelty.
Speaker 1:You don't chase the briar. The briar is already in you. Tonight, the spiral opened, the mirror broke, the envelope blood red, and they still think. They ask who is he? But they should be asking where did he begin? The answer is always the same the greenbrier begins at the first silence, at their first debt unpaid, at their first promise broken and buried under memory. He begins when you fail to speak. He doesn't stop until the silence speaks for you.
Speaker 1:I do not forgive, I do not forget, I erase. That is the law of the briar. If a name is written in two ledgers, burn one. If a debt is carried too long, paid in blood. If a name is written in two ledgers, burn one. If a debt is carried too long, paid in blood. If a reflection grins before you do, smash the glass. If an ending's waiting too long to arrive, deliver it yourself. These are not riddles, these are not metaphors, these are absolutes.
Speaker 1:The cost of peace is deletion. People think peace comes from confession, from someone listening and nodding as you lie your sins bare. They think forgiveness is a door you can walk through if you just speak the right words. But forgiveness is another trick of the spiral, another circle meant to keep you moving without ever arriving. Confession doesn't end anything, it only restarts the wait. I do not restart, I do not wait, I end.
Speaker 1:The envelope was proof, not that I exist, but that I always have. He restarts the wait. I do not restart, I do not wait, I end. The envelope was proof, not that I exist, but that I always have. The detective carried it in his pocket like a cantry, couldn't see. He thought he found it in the archives. He thought someone had placed it there.
Speaker 1:But the briar doesn't place things. The briar reveals what you already wrote. That's the cruelty, that's the gift. The ending is never outside of you. It's in your own hand, on the page. There are no more questions, no more suspects, no more ledgers to balance, only this truth the green briar is not the ghost you chase. The green briar is the hand that wrote the ending. The green briar is the shadow in every polaroid. The green bri bar is the shadow in every Polaroid. The green bar is the reflection that moves before you. The green bar is the silence that waits after you speak. The green bar is the ending, and the ending always comes.
Speaker 1:Alright, guys, let's get into my monologue here. Wow, you know we're here at a threshold, right, and thank you for making it this far. I mean, we have one episode left and it's been a wild ride, like I said. But let's slow this down, okay, because if you only heard a detective chasing ghosts or a killer speaking in codes, you missed the deeper current.
Speaker 1:This episode wasn't about an envelope easy for me to say, or even the spiral painted on the basement floor. It was about the weight of inevitability floor. It was about the weight of inevitability About how silence, debt and avoidance, how they just don't disappear with time. They multiply, they circle, they loop and eventually they come back wearing your own handwriting. You know you might think that the biggest revelation tonight was the letter that you know, with Grayson's signature, but the real clue wasn't the signature at all, it was the timing. Think about it. The envelope wasn't placed, it was hidden, it was waiting. That's what silence does it waits. The longer you leave something unsaid, the heavier it grows, until one day you pull it out of your pocket and realize it's already written itself.
Speaker 1:What Grayson found tonight wasn't just evidence against him. It was evidence of him. His own silence made tangible, his own avoidance turned into ink. And if you think that's just a story beat, look at your own life. What have you left unspoken for so long that it feels like you've been written without your permission? That's a big question for a lot of people, right? Because here's the thing the spiral isn't about just a basement floor painting. It's the pattern you live in.
Speaker 1:Every time you avoid a conversation you know you need to have, you take one step inward. Every time you push aside a truth because it's too heavy, another step Every time you choose silence when the truth could set you free, the spiral tightens Until one day you realize you're not walking forward, you're circling back, always to the same faces, the same mistakes, the same outcomes. That's what Grayson realized tonight. He hadn't been chasing the briar at all. He'd been circling himself.
Speaker 1:Now ask yourself what are you circling? What silence keeps you walking the same loop? What ending are you rehearsing without realizing it? Because here's the thing. Black saw this all in real time, the way silence corrodes trust. She asked him point blank when did you write this? And he had no answer.
Speaker 1:But think about the question beneath the question, right. It isn't about handwriting, it's about ownership. She was asking when are you going to admit the spiral is yours? We've all been asked that in different ways, right by lovers who wanted honesty, by friends who wanted closure, by family who wanted accountability. And how often did you answer with silence.
Speaker 1:The danger of waiting is simple the longer you stall, the less chance you have to choose your ending. Eventually, the ending chooses you. And that's what the briar is, not a man with a knife, not a shadow in the corner, not a signature on a page. The briar is inevitability. The briar is the proof that you can't outrun what you refuse to face. And if you think that's just horror fiction, look closer. How many debts in your life have already come due? How many envelopes are you carrying right now, sealed tight, waiting for you to open them? How many endings have you written with your own silence? This isn't about murder. This isn't about riddles. This is about you. Every silence, every avoidance, every lie you tell yourself eventually signs your name in red ink. And when that day comes, the only question left will be will you admit you wrote it?
Speaker 1:Okay, so now let's get into the five reflections here. These are going to be kind of big ones. Number one what spiral are you walking in right now? Where in your life do you keep circling the same failures, the same mistakes, instead of breaking out? That's a lot of us, right. Number two what envelope are you carrying in silence? What truth have you sealed away, hoping no one, including you, would ever open it? Number three what reflection do you avoid in the mirror when you look at yourself? What truth stirs back that you refuse to acknowledge? Number four what ending are you rehearsing If nothing changes, if you keep walking the same spiral? What conclusion is already written for you, right? And then here's another one. What name would be on your envelope If someone opened it tomorrow? What would the handwriting reveal about who you really are? And here's my closing thought on all this.
Speaker 1:Okay, you know, the lesson in episode 9 isn't about a man who found his own confession. It's about inevitability, about how every silence we carry is already writing the ending. For us. The Green Bride doesn't appear when the first lie is told. About how every silence we carry is already writing the ending. For us, the green briar doesn't appear when the first lie is told. He appears when the lie has been repeated so long that it becomes indistinguishable from the truth. And that's the warning for you. Peace of mind doesn't come from waiting. It doesn't come from silence, it doesn't even come from confession. Peace of mind comes from breaking the spiral before it circles back to you, because one day, if you don't, you'll open the envelope and the name inside will be yours.
Speaker 1:You know, guys, I just man, I don't think I've ever had this much fun writing a series. I just it's so much fun because these are things that I love. Right, as I'm just hitting the hell out of this microphone. I'm so sorry, guys, sorry about that. These are just that I love, right, as I'm just hitting the hell on this microphone. I'm so sorry, guys, sorry about that. These are just things I love to do, and I can see that you guys are responding to it as well. So what's crazy about this series? This is literally probably the most highly rated series I've ever done, and I have you guys to thank for that. So thank every single one of you for listening, for your support. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that I get your support. It's just, it's awesome, and you know if you want to support the show. It's super easy to do and it doesn't cost you anything.
Speaker 1:There's two ways. First way write a review for the show, say, hey, this show is amazing, give it four stars or five stars or whatever Goes a long way. Second way share this with a family member or friend. I remember I was talking about I think it was a couple weeks ago there was a woman who sent me an email, who said she rides the bus and she puts my stuff on. You know, she has a speakerphone right or puts it on speaker, and there's a group of them that listen to the backup of my bus, this series. So shout out to you guys. If you're listening right now, shout out to you.
Speaker 1:And if you want to get in touch with me me you want to have a conversation about this episode, this series, the 300 plus episodes that we have now on jen's journey, which is crazy. It's pretty easy. There's three ways. First way it's going to be on the description of this podcast. You click on the description. There's gonna be something that says, uh, let's chat. You click on the description. There's going to be something that says let's chat. You click on that. You and I can have a conversation about this episode, this series or, like I said, the 14 other series that are out there and the 300 plus episodes that I have on Gents Journey. Second one is going to be through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom. And then, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram is my gents. Again, guys, feel free to reach out to me there as well. Okay, so again, thank you, so, so, so, very much for listening today, and remember this you create your reality, take care.