The empty line opened.

They fell into a room with no edges.

There was no floor, yet they stood. There was no light, yet neither cast a shadow. Eli could see Lin clearly for the first time—and saw that her face changed with every memory that called her name.

“Is this the middle?”

“No,” said Lin. “This is everything we did not say.”

At once the room filled with invisible furniture. An apology became a chair neither dared sit in. A farewell hung like a locked door. Between them stood a table made from the question each had avoided:

Who writes us?

Eli looked above. Lin looked below.

          READER
            YOU

Someone was there. Not a face, not a hand: only the warm pressure of attention. Whenever it moved, the room gained a direction. Whenever it paused, they were free.

“Reader,” Eli said, “please leave us somewhere to go.”

So the reader did not turn the page yet.

In that generous delay, Eli and Lin found the door.