“This is the ,” he replied, gesturing to the breathing books. “Every ‘what if’ you’ve ever buried. Every text you didn’t send. Every compliment you swallowed. We feed on the might-have-beens.” He leaned closer. His breath smelled of cinnamon and rust. “You have a lovely one about that date. You imagined him being kind. You imagined his hands in your hair. That little fantasy is delicious .”
Lyra laughed. A prank. Her friends knew she’d just finished a disastrous online date—a guy who spent forty minutes explaining the geopolitical nuances of fantasy football. She’d joked she’d have better luck with a demon. This was their idea of a gag.
And Lyra, lonely and tired and curious, felt the word forming on her dream-lips. Yes.
But the Guide pulsed. A new note appeared in the margin, written in frantic, desperate ink: “He’s lying about the seven minutes. Time in the Obsidian Lounge runs backward. You’ll age a day for every minute. And he’ll record it. They all record it. Turn to Chapter Nine: The Toll.”