The sun rose without announcement.
No one at the Balance Branch had arranged themselves to receive it. It simply arrived the way mornings arrive during extraordinary events—indifferently, on schedule, carrying the specific cruelty of light that continues existing regardless of what the night before contained.
Staff members who had worked through the dark hours blinked at windows as though the sun were something that required explanation and found they had none to offer.
Sarya had not slept.
She sat in a chair in a corridor outside Archive Three with her back straight and her eyes open, which is not the same thing as being awake, and replayed the moment behind the Answer the way you press a bruise to confirm it is still there.
The figure. The voice. The absolute certainty of recognition that had moved through her before she could examine it.
The face, though.
When she reached for the face, it dissolved.
