Aether stood frozen at the edge of the silent, silver landscape, staring at the figure that had turned to look at him from among the countless quiet forms scattered across the horizon. Every instinct told him he was looking at himself â€" the same eyes, the same weight of bearing, though something about the figure's stillness felt entirely unlike anything Aether had ever seen in his own reflection.
"Who is that?" he asked, though some part of him already suspected the answer would not be simple.
The Last Reader remained seated on the small wooden bench, his gaze following Aether's toward the distant, familiar figure. "Not a clone," he said quietly. "Not an illusion, and not some glimpse of a future still waiting to unfold. What you're looking at is an ending."
"An ending of what?"
