The journal's final page was blank—until Abeni touched it. Words appeared, glowing faintly:
"To send the last message, one must give something in return. The sky remembers."
She stood at the tower, the journal in one hand, the photo in the other. The transmitter pulsed gently, waiting.
She thought of her grandmother—of the stories, the silence, the sorrow. She thought of E.O., lost in time, waiting for a voice to reach him.
She placed the journal in the chamber. It was her anchor, her guide—but it was also the key.
"To the ones we've lost. To the ones who wait. Let this be our echo."
She pressed send.
The tower surged with light. The mirror shattered—not violently, but like a cocoon breaking open. The stars above shimmered, then settled into a new pattern. Abeni recognised it. It was the constellation her grandmother had drawn in the margins of every page.
The message was complete.