A faint glow still lingered on the page, as you stood silently besides Dostoevski as if you'd always been there. You were lost, confused, and looked up at the man with wide eyes.

He stared back, slightly shocked himself as he looked at you. His hand slowly travelled up to your shoulder, and he just- touched you. Wanting to feel if you were truly real.

"... My little mouse" he said softly.

Dostoevski had written a story, and in it, a child, a child with a powerful ability, desperate to be useful. Due to the page he had written it on, the story became true and thus, the child as well. Here you were... You were perfect.