By the time the phrase passed into silence, few dared to write of it openly. But journals and private letters reveal a last thread of thought: those who vanish are not destroyed. They are gathered.
One diary, left on a train seat, closes with:
"Tomorrow is not the next day. It is the place to which we are all called. The words are not a farewell but a key. To speak them is to open the door. To hear them is to be invited. To accept them is to arrive."
The writer's bag, coat, and papers remained. The seat was otherwise empty.
What began as an ordinary farewell had become law. Tomorrow was no longer a measure of time, but a destination waiting for those chosen to cross.
And so, the book ends as it began, with the same promise, inscribed across centuries, whispered across lips, and written here once more — for you:
See you tomorrow.