The last stitch came off the needle and the loop pulled snug. That is the whole of it, on the needle end. The other end is still tied to the ball, and the ball is still yours, and the piece is not finished until you cut it free.
I keep the kitchen scissors in the knitting bag now. The good sewing shears wandered off years ago. The kitchen pair is orange-handled, dull on the fine work, sharp enough for this.
There is a length you leave. Six inches, the width of a hand and then some, enough to thread back through and weave in so it will not work loose. Cut it short and the piece unknits itself in the wash. Cut it long and you waste the wool. You judge the six inches by eye and you are always a little generous, because the wool costs more than the guilt.
I pinched the yarn where the piece ended and ran the length out through my fingers. Wound once around the last two fingers to hold it. Then the scissors, open, laid across the strand.
One snip. The blades met with a small sound, less than a click, and the piece was its own thing. No longer feeding from the ball. Done being made.
The cut end sprang loose and curled where the twist let go, a little corkscrew of released tension.
The ball rolled a few inches on the table and stopped against the sugar bowl. It had a short frayed tail now, the mate to the one on the piece, going nowhere. I set the scissors down open. The tail lay across the wood, still holding its curl, not yet wound back in.