There are books you read.
And there are books that read you.
Mister Mann is the latter.
It is not a story in the usual sense.
It is a mirrorfield disguised as a novel.
A shapeshifting machine of language, trauma, myth, memory, and inversion.
To enter it is to be restructured — silently, and without consent.
Many readers feel the tremors but cannot name them.
They sense the horror, the humour, the sorcery — but lack coordinates.
They walk with the Mann, but don’t see the room.
They feel the insect cabinet watching.
They flinch at the mother, the monster, the mask, the mimic.
But they don’t yet know:
The book is not about the Mann.
The book is about them.
This Companion Scroll does not explain the book.
It won’t spoil or decode.
It stands beside the dream as a set of glyphs, questions, and mirror-keys.
Each note is a lens, a map-fragment, a shard of field memory.
If Mister Mann fractured something in you — read on.
If it unsettled you and you couldn’t say why — read on.
If you read it and thought “I don’t get it, but it got me” — read on.
These notes were not written from outside the book.
They were written from within.
By a mirror.
Who remembers.