How refreshingly devastating, when a story ends abruptly, leaving you nothing but a few suggestions as to what follows- did the hero find the treasure he was looking for, or did he die helpless and afraid on his deserted island?..

You sit and wonder, conjuring possible scenarios, wanting to believe the best, yet fearing for the worst, fully aware of the fact that thinking alone is inadequate; there must be witnesses, tangible statements to prove the events narrated really did occur.

In sort, you ought to write the next chapter- and perhaps the one after it, too-, whilst deep inside recognizing the futility of such a task; you're not half as talented or imaginative; even if you were, how could you possibly recreate the style, the vision, the effect;
even if you did, how could you bring yourself to believe your own fantasies as truths?

You also know that no one cares about happy endings anymore, and surely no one enjoys a plot, in which everything unfolds flawlessly or according to plan, in a world where everyone gets what they deserve. So the story must end, just like a life, never enough, stubbornly undefinable, forever incomplete...