Page one: Kirtu stands on a rooftop you recognize. Your rooftop. The one outside your childhood bedroom window. The fire escape has the same rust stain shaped like Uruguay. The water tower has the same dent from when your drunk neighbor threw a chair.
No, not blank. White. White like fresh paper. White like the first page of a sketchbook you never opened.
You turn the page.
The empty balloon this time has a single word, hand-lettered in red:
Page ten. Blank.
"You left."
He holds it up.
Not a drawing. A photograph. Grainy, low-res, taken from a phone camera. It's your bedroom. This bedroom. The one you're sitting in. The timestamp in the corner reads today's date.