“I am mute,” I said. “I lost my voice and so stepped into these pages to find it again. It all is so white. White.”

I smile and recite the Sondheim lyrics. “A blank page or canvas…”

That canvas appears before me. White. All white. Not even a shadow beneath my feet.

“Angela?”

“Bergen!” I said and smiled. “You’re here too! Slainte!” Tipping my Guinness, I put the bottle to my mouth. Here in the White it’s just he and I and my Guinness.

“Angela.”

I sigh and swallow the thick beer down.

“Dagny?” he called to me, staring.

I said nothing as if afraid to speak.

“I know who you are,” I finally said, my back to him. I’m no longer me. I’m her.

I’m Dagny.

“You don’t,” he shook his head.

“I do. You left me there… left me there to die…” I remember the knife in my belly. The blood and the last breath I took.

“I did,” he said.

“I can’t…”

“Kallan is waiting.”

I peer up and I’m me again. The Author. I gaze at Bergen through the wall of unfallen tears.

“She’s waiting?” I asked.

“And Rune… They need you to write, Dagny.”

“But you’re the author, Bergen.”

“I am.” he nods and the bit of black hair falls in his eyes. He doesn’t move it. “But you know what the story would look like if I wrote it.”

“Yes,” I said. “We would only hear tales told of the Dark One and how awesome he is.”

He smiled at me.

“That’s right.”

I look at my hand and I’m suddenly holding a pen.

“Write.”

“Write,” I repeated. He pressed my hand to the White.

“Just write.”