Mira didn't stop running until her lungs burned and her legs felt like lead. The rain fell harder now, turning the streets into rivers of gray. She ducked into a narrow alley, pressing her back against the cold brick wall, clutching the soaked notebook to her chest.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. The world felt close, claustrophobic, as though the buildings themselves were leaning in, listening.
She flipped the notebook open with shaking hands. The ink had run in the rain, smearing her words into black streaks. But one sentence still stood out, sharp and dark against the wet page:
*"They can't erase you if you keep writing."*
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. Her hand hovered over the page, fingers stained with old ink and new rainwater.
Then, from the mouth of the alley, a soft scraping sound—footsteps, slow and deliberate, like someone dragging their shoes through puddles.
Mira froze. The air thickened, humming with something she couldn't name. She clutched the notebook tighter, heart hammering.
A shadow fell across the entrance. A figure stepped into view, hood pulled low over their face, dripping wet from the rain. Mira couldn't see their eyes, but she didn't have to. The cold weight of their presence pressed against her chest like a hand.
"Give it to me," the figure said, voice muffled by the hiss of rain.
Mira shook her head. "No."
The figure took a step closer. Water dripped from their fingertips. "You can't rewrite the story. That's not how this works."
"It is now," Mira whispered, backing deeper into the alley. "I won't let you erase me."
The figure sighed, tilting their head. "You think you're the first to try? The first to fight back? This story has been rewritten a thousand times. We always win."
Mira swallowed the lump in her throat. "Not this time."
She turned and ran, boots splashing through puddles, breath tearing at her throat. The figure didn't shout after her. Didn't chase. But the words they left behind clung to her ribs like poison.
*We always win.*
She didn't stop until she reached the edge of the old rail yard—a sprawl of rusting tracks and abandoned freight cars. The air smelled of wet iron and decay. She ducked inside the nearest boxcar, slamming the door shut behind her, heart thundering in her ears.
Inside, the shadows were thick, pulsing like something alive. She huddled in a corner, clutching the notebook, fighting the urge to sob.
She flipped the book open again, staring at the ruined pages.
*Keep writing,* she told herself. *Keep breathing.*
Her pen was gone, broken back in the library. She dug in her pockets, praying, and felt something small and hard—a pencil stub, barely an inch long.
It would have to be enough.
Hands shaking, she pressed the lead to the paper.
*"Mira hid in the boxcar. Mira waited. Mira planned. Mira refused to end here."*
The shadows in the corners shifted, twitching like a thousand unseen hands. A low moan rose from the walls, the metal groaning as if under pressure.
Mira kept writing.
*"She would find Rion again. She would tear the story apart if she had to. She would not vanish."*
The pencil snapped in her grip. She bit her lip, fighting the scream that clawed at her throat. She threw the useless stub aside and pressed her fingers into the page, smearing the graphite with her nails, willing the words to stay.
"Don't you dare erase me," she whispered into the dark.
Outside, the rain eased, but thunder rumbled, shaking the car. She felt the world lurch, like a film reel stuttering in an old projector.
Then, from the opposite corner of the boxcar, a voice spoke.
"You're making it worse."
Mira spun, eyes wide. The shadows there thickened, coalescing into a shape—a girl, tall and thin, her skin pale as paper, her eyes hollow pits.
"You're tearing holes," the girl hissed. "You think you're saving him. Saving yourself. But you're letting them in."
"Who?" Mira demanded, backing away.
The girl's mouth stretched into a too-wide grin. "The ones who wait between the pages. The ones who feed on unfinished stories."
Mira gripped the notebook tighter. "I don't care. I won't let you erase me."
The girl lunged, her hands stretching into claws. Mira screamed and scrambled out the door, tumbling into the mud outside. The boxcar shuddered behind her, metal screeching like tortured screams.
She ran across the tracks, not looking back, feet slipping on wet gravel. Somewhere far away, sirens wailed, echoing across the dark yard.
She didn't stop until the freight yard fell away behind her, swallowed by rain and night.
She pressed the notebook to her chest and whispered, again and again, like a prayer:
"I won't vanish. I won't vanish. I won't vanish."
And in the dark, something whispered back.
*Keep writing.*