Some stories are written to be read.
Some are written to be remembered.
But the ones that last—the ones that stitch themselves into the marrow of time—
are the ones we give to each other.
The Book of Shared Becoming rested on the central table of the Library That Opens Itself.
Its spine had no title. Its edges glowed not with magic, but with willingness.
Willingness to be touched.
Willingness to be filled.
Willingness to become something new every time a hand reached toward it.
And now, those hands were many.
The first page had no ink.
Only a fingerprint.
Smudged and human.
Elowen's.
She had placed it there without ceremony, resting her hand on the parchment for a moment before whispering:
"For the days I held too much and asked too little."
The page responded.
A line appeared beneath her touch.
Soft. Uncurling like mist.
"Your silence was not absence. It was strength waiting to speak."
She stepped back, breath trembling.
And smiled.
Jevan followed next.
