A week passed before anyone spoke about the letter again.
Not because they forgot.
No one in Black Hollow forgot anything anymore.
They waited because some truths needed time to settle.
The letter from the other Midnight remained on the mantle above the fireplace.
Not hidden.
Not displayed.
Present.
Like grief.
Like love.
Like memory.
Midnight found herself looking at it every morning.
And every morning, she heard the same line.
The world survives because someone chooses to live in it.
The first few days, the words felt like an accusation.
By the fourth day, they felt like forgiveness.
By the seventh, they felt like a promise.
The stars above Black Hollow remained unusually bright.
The Seventh Archive remained open.
Not dangerously.
Patiently.
As though the worlds beyo
