The first page
Once, the sky was a window.
It was not the glass that made the colours. It was the stories told beneath it.
Then people stopped telling them, and the window faded, one land at a time.
Something rose from all the things never said. The window broke.
Now the world is grey. The creatures still walk, made of clear glass.
One woman kept telling stories to the sky, every night, until she was gone.
You arrive with an empty book.
There were nine colours in the window. Only eight of them were ever told.















