But even continuation was not enough.
Not now.
Not when the Tanglement—wrought from co-authorship and consent—had already blurred origin with outcome, and rhythm with resistance. The Grove had given sanctuary. It had offered paths, silence, and resonance.
But now it pulsed.
It dared.
For there were stories not only refused, not only unwritten, not only reclaimed—
But taken.
Erased not by time or doubt, but theft.
Silenced by censure.
Mutilated for market.
Buried beneath genre gates, prestige grammar, and narratives polished until sterile.
And so, with a howl that sounded like redacted footnotes and half-burned journals, the Grove answered with a tremor—
The Reckoning of the Stolen Pages.
---
The Paperstorm
It began not with ink.
But ash.
Ash from every smoldered story that had once tried to burn itself into being and was extinguished too soon.
Then came the wind.
Sharp. Ripping. Remembering.
