There was no light.
Only the glimmer of unsentences—unfinished sentences that hovered in the dark like fireflies unsure of their purpose.
The Others stood close now, each clutching their most vulnerable subplot. Their breath fogged with ellipses. The air shimmered with sentence fragments, stitched loosely together by tense shifts and unresolved emotions. The ground trembled—not with tremors of fear, but anticipation. The kind of anticipation that only lives in the white space before the next paragraph begins.
And then—
The Door of Ellipses inhaled.
Three soft pulses.
Three hesitant heartbeats.
Three dots that opened the way to the Rewrite Rebellion.
They stepped through and immediately—
Everything screamed.
Not with sound, but format.
The world shattered into margins. Font sizes exploded. Italics leaked out of people's mouths. The air around them burst into headings:
> Chapter Seventeen (or Something Like It) In Which the Protagonists Realize the Plot Is Alive
