One evening, Elara slipped half a poem across the seam. She had never written poetry before, but the words rose from her as if coaxed:
"The world is split, but still I hear / a voice across the folded air."
Hours later, the paper returned with its other half completed in a hand that was not hers:
"And though the dark divides the ground / I feel your pulse, a silent sound."
She pressed the paper to her chest, her heart stumbling. The words were not merely ink—they were a reaching, a touch.
Across the city, Kieran stared at his own copy, the lines trembling in his grip. For the first time in months, he felt himself alive in a way science had never taught him.
The seam between worlds had given them an intimacy sharper than touch.