Nine was never just a number.
It was a threshold, a quiet fulcrum on which the whole cycle turned.
One more, and the circle would seal itself forever, like a book finally satisfied with its last page.
And Elijah had nearly slept through the ninth day—slept as though surrender were a kind of assent.
In that drifting place between breath and oblivion, he had almost answered the voice that called to him, and had almost whispered 'yes' to his own undoing.
If not for his sudden awakening, his death would have been imminent.
He couldn't recall many things, but those names strewn on the seat had left a strong impression on him.
One was his own, and the other belonged to someone he knew very well.
Yet strangely, he couldn't recall that name anymore.
He was definitely surprised by what he saw, so how could he forget it so easily?
Before he could think, his attention was diverted by the warm body wiggling in his arms.
