The girl leans in, every part of her quiet and waiting. The syllable hangs in the cold morning air between them — something like vael, or perhaps vaeln, a sound the wind might make if wind could mean something on purpose. It does not land as a word, exactly, but her chest does something unexpected when she hears it: the hum from before shifts and deepens, becomes almost a note she could sing back. Her fingers curl slightly at the edges, as though the sound has weight she can feel pressing in. Then she notices it — through the cover of the leather-bound book still pressed against her ribs, warmth is radiating outward, steady and rhythmic, like something writing itself slowly against the paper from the inside.