The seventh page was a perfunctory love letter to the second. Here, that dreamscape made it return, with all its castles and mountains—but this time it was half-formed, the excitement sporadic.
Sunset and I had a talk today. The portal she came through, when she left her world—she says it’s going to open again, in just a few months.
And she wants me to come back with her.
She didn’t ask me to make a decision just yet. There’s still time, after all.
But how in the world could I say no to that?
Below that last sentence, the paper is scratched and stained—marks of ink left by a dithering, indecisive pen, like bolts of fabric cut but never touched by a needle. Putting words to a page had a way of making them real: sometimes, that was a frightening thought.
I’d regret it if I said no. A chance like this—how could I live with myself if I turned it down?