The Blackthorn Codex
Episode 7 – The Day You Never Wrote to Yourself
A page opened. Blank.
It bore a single line, untitled:
And Leander understood that he would have to read this chapter.
Even if he didn't remember writing it.
---
In the attic, the Codex began to tremble again.
Not like a book.
Like a creature fed too slowly.
A page opened. Blank.
It bore a single line, untitled:
"Episode 7 – The Day You Never Wrote to Yourself."
And Leander understood that he would have to read this chapter.
Even if he didn't remember writing it.
Silence settled around him, thick, almost palpable.
The walls seemed to shrink, the light was fading. Time stood still, heavy and motionless.
He placed his hands on the page, but it was no longer paper.
It was a liquid surface, cold and shifting.
Images formed on its surface—scenes he didn't recognize: a house he had never lived in, faces he had never seen, words he had never spoken.
A faint voice emerged from the void:
"You never existed here."
Léandre wanted to reply, but his lips remained sealed.
He was trapped by this diffracted reflection.
Suddenly, a silhouette appeared in the mist.
A featureless figure, clothed in shifting shadows, holding an antique pen.
"I am the one who writes without your knowledge," she murmured.
"You are the text."
"You are only a fragment in a larger story."
Léandre felt his memories fade, slipping through his fingers like sand.
He understood that this chapter was not a beginning, nor a continuation, but an abyss.
A abyss where one loses what one believes to be oneself.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the page was empty.
But in his mind echoed a single sentence, heavy with promises and threats:
"Write yourself before I erase you."
---
The silence stretched, heavy and cold, while Léandre remained frozen in front of the blank page.
The echo of the sentence resonated in his mind, vibrating like a warning etched in the soul.
Around him, the walls of the attic seemed to dissolve, replaced by a void where time no longer had a hold. Fragments of memories, scattered and floating, clashed in the darkness, blurred images of a life slipping away.
He reached out, trying to capture the moments slipping through his fingers, but they slipped away with every touch.
Then, in the midst of this void, a faint light appeared, outlining the outline of a familiar yet foreign figure.
It was him—or at least what he could have been.
His eyes were bottomless abysses, his features bearing the weight of a story never lived.
Wordlessly, the figure held out an ancient scroll, the words of which wrote themselves, as if animated by a will of their own.
Leander knew then that this chapter was a test, a challenge posed by the Codex itself. If he didn't take ownership of his story, if he refused to write his own truth, he would forever be trapped on this blank page, forgotten by time and by himself.
He took a deep breath, the quill trembling between his fingers.
Destiny isn't dictated, it's written.
And tonight, Léandre would begin to write.