Christopher's steps in the Labyrinth grow stranger. Shelves move, books float, even the air itself seems to test him. Yet it is not only the library that unnerves him. Today, he encounters someone who does not belong to this place, and yet the Labyrinth itself seems to honor her.
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The Labyrinth has no sense of days, yet I measure them still. My watch is useless, but the pages of this journal remind me that time belongs to me if to nothing else.
I have walked through halls that fold upon themselves, where shelves stretch into shadow and rearrange without warning. Some tomes hum when I pass, vibrating faintly like they know I am unfit to touch them. Others rise from their places and drift across the air like great birds of parchment and leather, reshelving themselves wherever they please. Once, when I muttered aloud that this place seemed to choose its favorites, a massive tome shot past my head so close I felt the wind of it. A warning. Perhaps even a rebuke.
It was after that, in one such corridor, that I saw her.
At first, I thought the Labyrinth had conjured a vision. A woman moving with such grace that even the restless shelves seemed to be still in her presence. Her hair gleamed as though brushed by moonlight, and though she carried the weight of late pregnancy, she walked unbowed. Each step seemed accompanied by a hush, as if the air itself bent to steady her.
The drifting books slowed, as though reluctant to pass too near. The fire-globes above brightened, and for a moment silver threads laced the golden glow, as if the very air honored her passage.
She looked at me as though she already knew I was there. A quiet smile curved her lips, not startled, not questioning; it was as if our meeting had already been written. And though I should have spoken, I did not. Words deserted me.
A man appeared soon after. His steady, protective presence grounds the charged air around her. His hand hovered near hers as if to shield her, though she seemed far beyond needing such protection.
We exchanged only brief greetings before parting ways. Yet I write this with trembling hands, certain that I have stepped once again into the weaving of Heaven's design.
Something stirs in her. The Labyrinth knows it. And now, so do I.
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For the first time, Christopher is not alone in the Labyrinth. The encounter is brief, but its weight is undeniable. The shelves slowed, the fire-globes brightened, the very air shifted in her presence. Christopher does not yet know who she is, but he senses the design of Heaven moving around her. Some meetings change the path of a man forever.