There are things here… not human, not animal. They shift, they twist. They turn into bird-like creatures right in front of me. God, what is this place? I want to go home. Arjun… Arjun will be waiting for me.
The ink trailed at the end of the sentence, the line shaking into nothingness, as though the writer's hand had been yanked mid-thought.
There was no date on this entry.
The handwriting, scattered and uneven, appeared only on a handful of pages, as though the writer had been robbed of time, seizing ink whenever she could, never given the chance to say more.
It's already been three months since I came to this world.
God… these things, they're inhuman. I don't know if I'll ever see my family again.
The ink pressed heavier, as though anger was bleeding through the words.
No. I have to do something. I need to survive. I cannot just die here. I still have so many things left undone.
Then the lines twisted into something darker.
