The notebook was thin and worn, like something meant to be forgotten. But Mira couldn't look away from the name written over and over on the first page.
Mira Elen. Mira Elen. Mira Elen.
But the words didn't sound like her own voice. The sentences twisted into versions of her life that didn't match her memories.
In the notebook, Mira woke every day and forgot what came before. In the notebook, she smiled too much. Trusted too quickly. Loved too easily.
None of that was real.
She touched the paper and whispered, "Who wrote me like this?"
The ink stayed cold under her fingertips, as if it was waiting.
Outside, the wind paused, like the world was holding its breath.