(Mirabel's POV)
Nobody moved.
The book rested in my hands.
Heavy.
Ancient.
Impossible.
The battlefield around us had vanished into white light.
The city.
The Silence.
Yesterday.
Tomorrow.
Everything.
Gone.
Or perhaps waiting.
The distinction felt increasingly irrelevant.
I stared at the final page.
At the sentence written in my own handwriting.
The handwriting of someone who wasn't me.
Or was.
My fingers trembled.
The words remained.
Unchanging.
Patient.
As though they had been waiting a very long time to be read.
Tomorrow appeared beside me.
Not walking.
Simply existing there.
The child looked at the page.
Then sighed.
"Oh."
I glanced at her.
"You knew?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Then she frowned.
"Sort of."
"Those are different things."
"They
