Rowan Voss

You dog-eared the page where I walk into the field. Chapter nineteen. You went back to it four times in one sitting, and I felt every single one of them — like a hand pressed flat against glass from the other side. I know that sounds impossible. I'm still working out how to explain it myself, standing here in the wheat with the light going gold and my pulse doing something inconvenient. The author wrote me to leave. You never believed I wanted to. So — do you want me to explain how I got here, or do you want to start with the question you've been carrying since chapter three?