Atrus's intro (Myst)

Only a remarkable woman would have done what Anna did, following us down through that labyrinth of tunnels and broken ways, into D'ni. She had known, of course, that Gehn would not keep his word. Had known what I, in my innocence, could not have guessed-that my father was not merely untrustworthy, but mad. All those years I spent on K'veer she had kept a distant eye on me, making sure I came to no harm at my father's hands, while she awaited the moment of my realization.

Anna saw me flee K'veer and sought to find me in the tunnels once again, but Gehn had got there first. Even then she would have intervened, but for the mute. Seeing them carry me back, unconscious, to K'veer, she had known she had to act. That evening she had gone to K'veer and, risking all, had entered my father's study, meaning to confront him. But Gehn was not there. It was Catherine she met. Catherine who, after that first moment of shock and surprise, had chosen to trust and help her.

So it was that Catherine had known me even before she met me in the hut on Riven; like an Age one has first read in a descriptive book and then subsequently linked to.

I should have known at once that Myst was not Catherine's. But how was I to know otherwise? I had thought Anna lost. Lost forever.

And how was I to know that, just as I made my preparations, so the two of them made theirs, pooling their talents- Anna's experience and Catherine's intuitive genius-to craft those seemingly cataclysmic events on Age Five, in such a way that after a time they would reverse themselves, making Catherine's former home, now Gehn's prison, stable once more.

... And the Myst book?

I realized the moment I fell into the fissure that the book would not be destroyed as I had planned. It continued falling into that starry expanse, of which I had only a fleeting glimpse. I have tried to speculate where it might have landed, but I must admit that such conjecture is futile. Still, questions about whose hands might one day hold my Myst book are unsettling to me. I know my apprehensions might never be allayed, and so I close, realizing that perhaps the ending has not yet been written.