Healing with the monster
It was a clear, empty room—silent, swept clean, and waiting for nothing at all.
I picked up a short stub of dry charcoal, its edge rounded and smooth. There were no broadsheets left, no slate tiles, no clean margins in the official books. I pulled a tiny, unblemished strip of white paper—barely two fingers wide—from the hem of my cardigan where I had stitched it weeks ago, laying it flat against the dark wood. I pressed the charcoal down, writing the first line of Chapter 184 into the narrow space:
Bab Populer