And Clara sat at the piano.
Wolfgang, reincarnation of Mozart, didn't speak. He hadn't spoken in three weeks, not since he'd composed a sonata that made the listener forget their own name. His ability, Aural Calculus , let him hear the music of causality—the subtle harmony of events that hadn't happened yet. He was listening now, head cocked, face pale. Then he wrote on a napkin: She's already here.
Rook took the marble—she'd made another—and pressed it against the leather book. The comic began to glow. Pages flipped on their own. Panels reshuffled. And in the final frame, Melaina appeared not as a shadow, but as a sleeping woman with kind eyes and calloused hands.
"Where are we?" Mira asked.
Rook smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "I'm the Muse of Cuts . The spaces between frames. The silent panels. The moments artists erase but never forget." She held up the marble. Inside, a tiny galaxy spun. "I can step into the white space. The gutters of reality. And I can bring things back."
