Mira extends the receipt toward the cobalt flame. It doesn't catch the way paper should — the edges char to fine silver-grey ash, but the word itself brightens, each letter of Threnavel glowing as if lit from within. A low hum rises from the paper, travels up through her fingers, and finds the same lock in her chest that turned when she first read it. The crow goes utterly still. The pine-cold draft pauses. In the held silence, Mira hears what sounds like a single whispered reply rising from the paper — a second word, or a name, or both — too faint to grasp fully. Then the cobalt flame retreats, the hum fades, and the receipt is whole again in her hand, all edges intact, the ink of Threnavel now faintly luminous. The crow hops from the sill to the inner edge of the windowframe, angling itself toward the open door at the end of the dark hall.