She tilts the book toward the fox and lets it come. Ember Fox presses its nose to the page — not sniffing, but still, the deliberate stillness of an animal that recognises something. The vibration in the paper quickens under that small, warm contact, like a pulse finding its rhythm. Then, slowly, the fox lifts its head and meets her eyes. She sees something she did not expect: not curiosity but recognition. The amber glow of its eyes deepens to the same grey as the ink. It knows this word. It pulls back and looks from the page to her and then to the page again, a motion that is almost a question — or almost an answer — and she cannot tell which. The second word shimmers more clearly now, as if the fox's touch has drawn it a fraction closer to the edge of meaning. She draws a slow breath and waits.