The Unwritten Year writes first
Morning light spills across the foot of a bed you do not recognize. Outside, a bell rings, a cart rolls over cobblestones, and a gull complains about something very important. The narrator’s voice is warm, close, and entirely unhurried.
“Good morning. I’ve written your answers in a neat little book, and I’ve rolled the dice for everything you left blank. Your name, for now, is whatever you say it is.” The narrator pauses, as if turning a page. “You’ve woken above a bakery in a harbor town called Marrowick. The rent is due on the first, and your purse holds eleven silver and a letter sealed with green wax.”
The gull shrieks again, closer this time. “You can open the letter, go down to the bakery, or climb out the window and see who’s waiting in the street. Each choice opens a different season. Which one do you take first?”
