Mira didn't sleep that night. She sat on the floor of her room with the book open in front of her, the words on the pages shifting every time she blinked. Sometimes they were blank. Sometimes they were full of sentences that made her stomach twist:
*"She failed."*
*"She vanished."*
*"She never should have looked."*
She slammed the book shut and hugged it to her chest, heart pounding.
*Write your own ending.*
The words echoed in her mind like a bell. But what did that mean? How could she fight something she couldn't even see?
She thought of Rion—of his glitching figure on the rooftop, the way his voice cracked as he tried to speak. He had said they were trying to erase him. That they would do the same to her.
She wasn't going to let that happen.
When the first pale light of dawn crept through her window, Mira grabbed her bag and slipped out of the apartment. Her mother's voice called after her from the kitchen, asking where she was going, but Mira didn't answer. She didn't trust that voice anymore. Didn't trust any voice that felt too scripted, too perfect.
The streets were empty. A soft drizzle fell from a gray sky, pattering against her shoulders as she walked.
She didn't know exactly where she was going. Only that something pulled her forward, a thread tugging at the edges of her thoughts.
Half an hour later, she found herself standing outside the old school library. The building was dark, locked up tight, but she knew the back door would be open. It always was in her memories—back when she and Rion used to sneak in during lunch breaks.
She slipped inside, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall. The air smelled of dust and old paper, and somewhere far away, she heard the low hum of machinery, like a giant printing press churning out stories that no one had written yet.
She moved past rows of shelves, trailing her fingers across cracked spines. Each book felt alive under her touch, vibrating softly as though they wanted to speak.
At the far end of the room, tucked into a dark corner, was a desk she remembered well. She sat down, pulling out her notebook and a pen.
"Write your own ending," she whispered.
She put the pen to the paper and started to write.
At first, nothing came. Her hand trembled, the tip of the pen scratching across the page. Then, slowly, words began to flow:
*"Mira refused to vanish. Mira refused to be erased. Mira chose to stay."*
As she wrote, the air around her thickened, the shadows crawling closer. The shelves rattled softly, as though the books were angry.
She kept going, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.
*"Mira would find Rion. She would bring him back. She would tear down the walls of this story if she had to."*
The lights overhead flickered and popped. A thin wail echoed through the library, rising to a shriek that made her ears ring.
She didn't stop writing.
Suddenly, the pen snapped in her hand, the plastic splintering. Ink spilled across the page, soaking the words she'd just written. Mira gasped and stumbled back, clutching her ink-stained fingers.
Then, from the darkness between two shelves, a voice whispered.
"You shouldn't do that."
Mira turned, her breath catching. A figure stepped out of the shadows—a girl with blank eyes and a soft smile that never reached her cheeks.
"Mira Elen," the girl said, tilting her head. "You're not allowed to change the script."
Mira backed away. "Who are you?"
The girl's smile widened. "Just another part of the story."
She stepped closer, her hands outstretched. "Stop fighting. It's easier that way."
Mira shook her head, tears streaking down her face. "No. I'm not giving up. I'm not—"
The girl lunged. Mira screamed, grabbing the notebook and swinging it wildly. The book struck the girl's head with a dull crack, but the girl didn't flinch. Her smile never faltered.
"Let us write you," the girl whispered. "Let us finish you."
Mira bolted for the door, clutching the ruined notebook to her chest. She ran through the library, shelves toppling behind her as the shadows swarmed closer. Books fell to the ground, pages tearing free, words screaming into the air like smoke.
She burst out into the rain-soaked street, gasping for breath. The world outside looked normal—gray, quiet, empty. But she knew it wasn't safe anymore. The story was bleeding through, the walls between fiction and reality cracking at the edges.
She clutched the notebook tighter and whispered into the wind.
"I'm not done yet."
Then she started to run.