The Reader stepped forward, and the world shifted.
Not violently. Not with grandeur or calamity.
But with the soft finality of a seal pressed onto warm wax.
The page beneath him—once blank—began to accept form.
Not imposed by ink. Not dictated by will.
But welcomed.
Elari watched as the lines uncoiled themselves like old roots rediscovering the memory of earth.
The Reader raised the shard of mirrored ink, and it pulsed once—just once—with the weight of a promise.
And then, he began to write.
But not with the Pen.
He wrote with presence.
With intention.
With what could no longer be stolen.
Each letter appeared in the space between moments, caught like dew between memory and becoming:
"To every voice silenced:
I have heard you.
I will not forget."
"To every story unwritten:
I open the door."
"To those who fear the ending:
I offer a different one."
His words didn't overwrite what had been.
They sat beside it.
Braided it.
Strengthened it.
