The man in the corduroy jacket, who introduced himself simply as Arthur, didn't eat like a god. He ate like someone who had forgotten what flavor felt like. He chewed the honeyed bread slowly, his eyes tracking the way the golden twilight of the Epilogue caught the steam rising from the tea.
"It’s different when it’s off the page," Arthur whispered, his voice trembling. "I spent decades imagining the 'weight' of things. I wrote about the 'smell of cedar' and the 'sting of cold.' But to actually feel the wood of this table... to feel the grain against my palms..." He looked at Han, his eyes damp. "You did a better job than I did, Han. You made it solid."
Han sat across from him, no longer the Carpenter of the Shards, but a host at his own table. "We didn't just make it solid, Arthur. We m
