The new page glowed.
Not with light, but with intent. The kind of raw narrative force that could only emerge when a story was shared between hearts, not just hands. It pulsed like a heartbeat, every word a living thing.
The Reader narrowed his eyes.
He had seen many titles.
He had stolen more.
But never one that denied his authorship so completely.
He stepped forward.
And the world bent.
The grass beneath the girl's feet unraveled into scattered punctuation. The sky curled inward, trying to turn the sentence of existence into a question. Trees that had grown from the roots of ancient memory folded like torn pages, screaming syllables that had never been spoken aloud.
But the girl stood firm.
And behind her, the Circle stood too.
Jevan, the boy who had once painted clouds with memory, raised his brush. The bristles sparked with fragments of dream and ink, shaking loose threads of untold moments.
