The Bridge of the Wayfarer was not a physical structure, though to Han’s eyes, it appeared as a ribbon of translucent white marble stretching into a horizon that refused to curve. As The Echo of Wood glided onto this path, the humming of the ship’s engine changed. It no longer fought against the friction of reality; it harmonized with it.
"Variable 94: The Living Record," Han whispered, documenting the way the stars outside the bridge didn't flicker. They were solid points of ancient, un-scripted fire. "I am leaving the library. I am entering the world where the ink was born."
The Wayfarer, still standing on the deck of a small skiff made of what looked like solidified starlight, gestured for Han to follow. They moved in silence for what felt like hours, or perhaps seconds—time on the Br
