Henry Day. No matter how many times uttered or written, those two words remain an enigma. The faeries had called me Aniday for so long that I had bee the name. Henry Day is someone else. In the end, after our months of watg him, I felt no envy for the man, only a sort of restrained pity. He had bee so old, and desperation bowed his shoulders and marked his face. Henry had taken my name and the life I could have lived, a run through his fingers. How passing strao settle on the surface of the world, bound to time and lost to orue nature.
I went bay book. Our enter outside the library spooked me, so I waited ht, and before dawn, through the y, I slid into the old darkened room and lit a single dle to show the way. I read my story and was satisfied. Tried to sing the notes of Henrys song. Into one bundle went my manuscript, papers from when I first arrived, and the letter from Speck; and into another, Henrys score. The last of these I plao leave at his er t……（内容加载失败！）
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