thing hard and warm pressed back against his palm.
A heartbeat.
Not his own.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since entering the prison, he stopped calculating.
Stopped resisting.
Stopped being问号先生.
He let the silver thread from his fingertip reconnect—not to logic, not to causality—but to the rhythm pulsing beneath his palm. A rhythm that matched the light in the red crystals, the rotation of the silver cocoon, the slow, steady throb of the golden core in Henry’s skull.
It was the same rhythm that had lulled him to sleep in that摇椅, that hummed from the garbage-filled TV, that vibrated in the pumpkin pie crust Frannie baked with trembling hands.
The rhythm of home.
His knees buckled.
Not from weakness.
From recognition.
As he sank onto the silent carpet, the red crystals flared blindingly bright, and from the walls, from the floor, from the very air, countless whispers rose—not in words, but in tone
温馨提示：亲爱的读者，为了避免丢失和转马，请勿依赖搜索访问，建议你收藏【笔趣库网】 m.biquku8.com。我们将持续为您更新！
请勿开启浏览器阅读模式，可能将导致章节内容缺失及无法阅读下一章。