Light exploded around me.
It wasn't just bright—it was blinding, like staring directly at a blank page that had never been touched. There was no sound, no weight, no up or down. Just whiteness and the fading echo of that stranger's voice—"I'm the version of you who finished the story."
Then suddenly—
I fell.
The light shattered like glass, and I was plummeting through a sky filled with pages. Torn sheets of parchment drifted past me, each one scribbled with half-finished scenes and red-ink corrections. I reached out, grasping at them, but they dissolved into dust.
Then—impact.
I landed hard on stone.
Groaning, I pushed myself up. I was in what looked like a ruined library—half-collapsed shelves, books floating midair, ink dripping from the ceiling like rain. The air smelled of burnt paper and forgotten dreams.
That's when I heard her voice.
"You're not supposed to be here."
I turned.
She stood in the archway—barefoot, her hair long and black with streaks of silver like starlight. Her eyes shimmered like mirrors, and for a moment, I saw something impossible reflected in them.
Me—sitting at a desk. Writing. Crying.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice barely holding steady.
The girl stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "You don't remember me. That's expected. You erased me before I was ever born."
My chest tightened. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm Veyra," she said simply. "You were going to write me. A girl with no fate. A side character who was meant to become something more." She paused, her tone sharpening. "But you never did. You gave up. Left me in a forgotten file and moved on."
My thoughts raced. Veyra... the name stirred something faint, like a whisper at the edge of memory. A single line from an old notebook.
"Veyra: the girl who knows she isn't real."
My heart pounded. "This can't be real. You're just—just some figment."
She walked up to me, eyes locking with mine. "This world isn't a dream, Arin. It's a draft. A story without a final chapter. And it's collapsing."
Then she held out something small.
A torn page—charred at the edges. On it were the words:
"Prologue: The Author Dies."
"I found this," she said quietly. "Before you arrived. Someone has been writing over your story, bending it into something darker. If you don't reclaim the narrative... you'll vanish."
My fingers trembled as I took the page.
"What about the one who looks like me?" I whispered.
Her eyes narrowed. "The Shadow of Completion. He thinks this is his book now. And he wants to erase the version of you who still hesitates."
I swallowed hard. "What do I do?"
Veyra stepped closer. "You start writing again."
Before I could ask what she meant, the walls of the library groaned. Pages flew like startled birds. A thunderous pulse shook the ground. Somewhere deep within the library, something ancient had awakened.
She turned, her voice sharp now. "Come on. The next chapter is already bleeding through. And if you don't take the pen—someone else will."