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His apprentice, a girl named Mira with ink-stained fingers and a dying father, once asked him why he kept printing that word.

Mira read it. Her throat closed.

Not the poem. The word itself. He had carved it from the idea of loss. And he had cast it in . bodoni 72 smallcaps bold

Orson died that winter. His press went silent. But on Mira’s wall, and in the small, secret collections of those who understand, the word still stands. Unforgiving. Unbending. His apprentice, a girl named Mira with ink-stained