(Mirabel's POV)
The Last Reader cried.
Quietly.
Without drama.
Without collapse.
Just tears.
Steady.
Honest.
Ancient.
The kind of tears that had been waiting a very long time.
Nobody knew what to do.
The Devourer looked deeply uncomfortable.
The First Dream looked like she wanted to help.
Tomorrow looked like she wanted to punch whoever was responsible.
Yesterday looked like she already knew exactly how dangerous this was.
The voice beyond the fracture remained gentle.
Patient.
Waiting.
The hand stayed extended.
Offering.
Never demanding.
Never forcing.
That was the terrifying part.
Nothing beyond the final page wanted to take anything.
It wanted to be chosen.
The city dimmed.
Listening.
The Last Reader stared at the offered hand.
At the promise it represented.
