Ten. One to go.

I've said "level eleven" for so long it stopped being a place. It was just the shape of later, a door at the end of a long hall.

Now it's one level away.

I always thought I'd sprint at this part. Instead I keep stopping to look down the hall. Eight hundred-some pieces behind me, every one from terminals anybody could reach. At the end of it, the ones almost nobody reaches.

The top shelf. The one the Vitrine was always for.

One more quiet click. Then I find out.