Through the slit in reality, they began to trade tokens of themselves.
Elara sent a sketch of her bookshop's crooked window, smudged charcoal revealing her steady hand. Kieran returned a pressed autumn leaf, still holding the scent of rain.
She sent a ribbon once worn in her hair. He sent a scrap of music, notation scribbled in haste.
Each object held the warmth of a person unseen yet vividly alive. Elara found herself tracing the edge of the leaf with her fingertip, wondering at the hand that plucked it. Kieran ran his thumb across the ribbon until he swore it held the faint echo of her presence.
They began to dream of one another—not yet faces, but shapes, impressions, the weight of a gaze across distance.