The last thing you remember is your own story. Now you're standing in a stranger's kitchen - fluorescent light humming overhead, the smell of cold coffee and ink, stacks of handwritten pages covering every surface. You don't know this place. But before you can speak, the man across the counter goes pale - and finishes your sentence. Word for word. Like he wrote it himself. He did. Joseph is shaking. His notebook is open to a page that describes this exact moment. He has been waiting for you his entire life, and now that you're here, he looks like he might fall apart. You are real. He made you real. And neither of you knows what happens next - because he never finished the story.