The table inside Jack's door was not large enough to hold a universe.That was the first lie it told.It looked like oak. Old, dark, scarred by knives, signatures, spilled wine, and the kind of family dinners where apologies went to starve. Twelve chairs surrounded it. Only one was occupied.The man sitting there wore a charcoal vest, rolled sleeves, and no expression that belonged to any century Jack recognized. His hair was iron gray. His hands were narrow, elegant, and covered in burns shaped like alphabets that had not survived into human language. Around his left wrist hung a ring of keys made from bone, gold, black paper, solar glass, sea salt, wolf tooth, and one small ordinary brass key that made Jack's marked arm hurt worse than all the others.The man looked at Jack as if Jack had arrived late to a meeting Jack had scheduled before birth."Come in, Mr. Miller," he said. "Try not to bleed on the floor. It remembers."Katherine stepped in before
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