“I… suppose I do like stories, like anyone would, but—” It hit him then when the words left his mouth, and he choked on them with a start. Stories. He was here because he was in a story. Every single person here was here because they were in a story. His whole life led to him being ensnared in a kind of cosmic storybook, written by uncaring hands and enjoyed by an unknowable audience. Every wound a pen stroke, every tragedy a punctuation, every trouble an intentional condescension from an unknowable author. He, and every single person here, was a focal point in a story of unknown providence and unfamiliar purpose, taken to this realm between the lower world that was where their lives were written and a higher one whence drew joy from their struggles and failures.