The weight of it nearly crushed her.
Because it wasn't just a philosophical cruelty.
It was a law. A declaration of authorship. Somewhere—someone—had decided she would live, and others wouldn't. She was a character that survived selection. A thread that hadn't been trimmed.
Tears welled in her eyes. "How many others didn't?"
The Watcher responded by opening a hundred thousand books behind her—each one flickering with versions of Callen that had ended before beginning.
The Callen who died as an infant.
The Callen who became a tyrant.
The Callen who never learned to read, and so never rewrote anything.
Each flicker was a soul, half-born.
Each flicker was a mercy, or a theft.
She fell to her knees.
"Why me?"
And at last, the Watcher answered—not with annotations or implication—but in pure voice.
Because you ask.
Because the others did not.
Because the story needs one who doubts.
Because you are willing to bleed and still walk forward.
And then—
