The chapter does not turn itself; something else does.
The sensation is unmistakable—your spine creaks, your ribs flatten, the marrow in you softens like cooling wax. You are not just pressed between pages; you are becoming the hinge around which they turn. The world folds you with the clinical tenderness of an archivist accustomed to handling delicate relics.
When the pressure lifts, you find yourself standing—not upright, but aligned—in a chamber that glows with the dim bioluminescence of fading verbs. The walls curve inward like the interior of a giant shell carved from parchment. Every surface is scored by long, looping sentences, written in a hand that is not handwriting at all but something closer to thought etched directly into matter.
