the slight tremor in my fingers as i adjust the cuff of my uniform, a tiny vibration against the rough fabric, it’s a curious contrast to the vast, indifferent expanse of the marble halls around me. because the question, that singular piercing WHY, it still arrives, even after all this time and all these notebooks. it just no longer feels like an invitation to despair, but rather, a prompt, a starting gun for the furious, defiant act of making something matter anyway, a choice that hums deep in the bone. like the faint light touching ancient bronze, my questions in notebook fifteen are not about finding an answer, but about the insistence of asking.