PREVIEW

... /p>

But the ones that last—the ones that stitch themselves into the marrow of time—

are the ones we give to each other.

The Book of Shared Becoming rested on the central table of the Library That Opens Itself.

Its spine had no title. Its edges glowed not with magic, but with willingness.

Willingness to be touched.

Willingness to be filled.

Willingness to become something new every time a hand reached toward it.

And now, those hands were ...

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