Mira stumbled through the wet streets until her legs gave out, collapsing beneath the flickering neon sign of an old laundromat. The place was closed, the windows dark and smeared with rain, but at least there was shelter under the rusted awning.
She pulled the notebook from her bag, hugging it close like a shield. The graphite smears on her hands had dried into black scars across her skin. Her breath steamed in the cold air, shallow and fast.
*I'm not done,* she thought. *I'm not done yet.*
A distant noise made her look up—a scraping shuffle, echoing from the mouth of the alley across the street. For a moment, she saw nothing but rain and trash cans. Then something moved in the shadows. A silhouette, tall and crooked, stepping closer.
"Stay away," she whispered.
The figure froze. A voice as thin as paper crackled out: "You can't run forever."
Mira's heart slammed against her ribs. "Why are you doing this?"
The figure tilted its head. "Because the story demands it."
It took another step into the streetlight. The face was wrong—like someone had drawn a human smile but forgotten to add eyes. Just smooth skin, a perfect curve of mouth that never blinked, never faltered.
"You're not real," Mira said, voice breaking.
The figure laughed, soft and breathy. "Neither are you."
It lunged. Mira scrambled up, clutching the notebook, sprinting down the sidewalk. The figure gave chase, its footsteps echoing like gunshots in the empty night.
She darted around corners, through puddles that soaked her shoes, heart thundering in her ears. The world blurred around her, neon signs melting into streaks of red and blue. Behind her, the voice hissed and scraped:
"Stop writing…"
She turned into a narrow gap between buildings, pressing her back against the brick. The figure raced past, vanishing into the rain. Mira clamped a hand over her mouth, fighting the sob that threatened to spill out.
*Keep moving,* she told herself. *Keep writing.*
She tore a page from the notebook, fumbling for the pencil stub. There was barely enough left to scratch out a line:
*"Mira escaped. Mira survived. Mira kept the story alive."*
The air thickened, vibrating around her like a taut string. A low groan rose from the walls themselves, mortar cracking and bricks trembling.
She felt the world shift—like someone had dragged the film reel of reality ahead by one frame.
And in that heartbeat, the alley fell silent.
Mira peeked out. The street was empty. The figure was gone.
She stumbled forward, the notebook clutched in one hand, the broken pencil in the other. The rain eased to a drizzle, the clouds overhead thinning to reveal a smear of pale moonlight.
She ducked into a run-down café with its door propped open, the sign flipped to CLOSED. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the smell of old coffee and mildew. She slipped into a booth, shoulders hunched, breathing hard.
For the first time in what felt like hours, she let herself cry.
She opened the notebook and saw new words written in unfamiliar handwriting.
*"Keep running. Keep writing. We're still watching."*
She swallowed hard, tears dripping onto the page. "Who are you?" she whispered.
The words shifted, ink bleeding across the paper until they formed just one line:
*"The ones between the lines."*
She snapped the book shut, shoving it into her bag.
*No more,* she thought. *I'll write my own ending. Even if I have to bleed it into the page myself.*
She stood, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. The rain outside had stopped completely now. The world felt hollow and hushed, like the pause before someone turned the page.
*I won't vanish,* she thought. *I won't be written out.*
She stepped out into the night again, the neon glow flickering overhead.
Somewhere, deep in the dark, the voice whispered:
"Then hurry. Before they do it for you."