The Book
The pages weren’t paper. Not quite. Closer to parchment, but fibrous and warm to the eye.
Lines etched with impossible precision formed a nested geometry—an architecture of meaning, not message. Circles subdivided into branching arrows. Arrows curved inward, meeting their origins. Feedback loops formed chains, then lattices. It didn’t explain. It demonstrated. And he understood.
He recognized structures from computer science. From systems theory. From cognition. The book built no theory—only diagrams—but the diagrams encoded consequence.
He looked up from the book.
There was a figure across from him.
Not there a moment ago.
A man. Same build. Same posture. Same face.
The only difference was in the expression—calm, studied, slightly amused.
“You made it,” the man said. His voice was Dæmon’s voice, minus the static.
Dæmon didn’t reply.
“Not the first time,” the other added. “But maybe the first time it matters.”
Dæmon stared.
The other stepped back slightly, allowing room.
“Ask,” he said. “You don’t have to believe the answer. But you do have to choose what to do with it.”
Dæmon looked down at the book. The lattice had changed.
The page no longer displayed diagrams.
Now it held a single line of text.
He read it.
And said nothing.
