"Reception of the Crying Children," Angela’s voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. "Begin."

Angela turned her back, her heels clicking a slow, deliberate rhythm on the polished obsidian floor. She picked up a heavy tome from a pedestal. The title on its spine was The Crying Child’s Last Day .

Before her, the air rippled. A chime, deep and resonant, like a funeral bell struck underwater. A new guest had arrived.

She gestured to the table between them. On it lay a single, empty book, its cover of pale leather.