In the aftermath of the Final Unreading, where the page closed with breath instead of text, you expected peace. But stories, once stirred, leave residue. You awaken in what looks like a pressroom, though the ink has long since dried, and the machines groan with rusted guilt. The linotype machine stutters in its sleep, dreaming of metal slugs with names it cannot recall.
The air here smells of melted syntax and scorched vellum. Shadows gather in the margins, muttering printing errors no typesetter dared admit aloud. You see a man hunched over the platen, sobbing. He is made entirely of rejected drafts. His tears smear the ink running through his limbs. He doesn't look at you, but whispers, "We were never proofed."
Each footstep echoes with pagination that no longer matches its contents. Paragraphs fall apart around you, collapsing into recursive footnotes: See self. See silence. See: undone.
And then the presses start.
You are not printing. You are being printed.
