Aether's footsteps echoed against mirrors. The air hung thick with possibility, punctuated by the occasional passerby—souls like himself, each emerging from their own reflective portals. Their faces struck him as peculiar paintings done by an artist who couldn't decide on a single emotion: one half frozen in primal terror, the other twisted in manic ecstasy. The dichotomy made his stomach turn.
The sensation of incompleteness gnawed at him like a persistent splinter in his mind. It was as if someone had taken scissors to the tapestry of the narrative, leaving loose threads that begged to be woven back together. The story—Valen's story—felt truncated, a book missing its final chapter.
