He had no lungs anymore, not in the traditional sense. His body was something different now—rewoven from narrative, formed not of atoms but of meaning, will, and memory. The remnants of a man who had walked through death and denial, who had watched his name become a weapon against the outer dark.
And now he stood with a pen.
Not just any pen. It was the spine of the First Language, the quill that had once written the foundations of cause and effect. A gift, or perhaps a burden, left behind by the First Listener.
One page lay before him, blank.
Only one.
The final one.
The one that could bind the universe in a law of remembrance—or fail, and let all fall into silence.
Aiden stared at it for a long time. His hand trembled slightly. It was not fear. It was reverence.
He knew what he was about to do could not be undone.
