The touch was cold, then warm. The white of the page flickered. For a single, silent moment, he felt a calloused, ink-stained hand clasp his. He heard nothing. Saw nothing more. But he felt a sigh—the release of a held breath that had lasted thirty years.
The title page: "The Son Who Read This." BlackNWhiteComics - 20 Comics
Or he could accept the final panel.
Most boxes were labelled by artist or genre: Horror, Sci-Fi, Romance, Noir. But the twentieth box was different. It was made of old, dark wood, banded with rusted iron. On its lid, in Enzo’s precise lettering: The touch was cold, then warm
But sometimes, late at night, when the shop was empty and the streetlights cast long shadows, Leo would open the case and touch Page 20. And the hand would be there. Always reaching. Always held. He heard nothing
Leo sat on the cold floor of his father’s shop, surrounded by nineteen ghost stories, holding a comic that was drawing itself in real time. The inky hand had formed a wrist now, then a forearm. It was reaching toward Leo’s own hand, which rested on the page.
"Close your eyes. See the first panel you ever drew."