writing it, one day at a time, one word at a time, one page at a time, until the very end, which is not an end at all but a comma, a pause, a breath before the next sentence begins. The bell on the door of The Parchment Curl did not ring, because no one was there to ring it, but if you had been listening closely, you might have heard it anyway—a single, soft chime, not a goodbye but a hello, not an ending but an invitation, the sound of a book opening to the page you have always been looking for. And the page is blank. And the page is waiting. And the page is yours.
