Liora Mireille did not dream often anymore. But when she did, the dreams were always the same.
A single sheet of paper fluttering through the air like an autumn leaf, catching fire before it hit the ground. And behind it, smoke curled into the shape of a man she'd tried to forget — the kind of shape no mirror could reflect.
Tonight, the dream was louder.
The paper whispered his name.
---
Strathmoor Bookstore – Author Display Wall
Mira Elwood stood in front of the book display long after the morning rush had passed. Liora's newest novel, The Quieting Hour, sat with a fresh gold sticker on the cover: #1 Bestseller.
Mira traced the curve of the title with her eyes, but her mind wasn't on the book. It was on the short story that had mysteriously reached Liora's doorstep. It wasn't coincidence. It was an echo. A message.
She held a copy of The Literary Flame pressed against her ribs. Edric Vale's old article — his fingerprints on the story — were undeniable.
And then there was Jalen Thorn.
No record of his past. No digital trail. No origin.
If Edric Vale had been reborn… if he had returned… what would he do first?
She looked at the bookstore staff, then at the security mirror hanging above. No sign of him.
But her gut said he was close.
Too close.
---
Jalen's Apartment
The journal had remained untouched on his desk for a day and a half, though Jalen didn't sleep a minute during that time. The scent of old ash never left the pages, and it now lingered in the air like incense, like a warning.
He finally opened it again that night.
Every page was filled with his work — stories he never shared, metaphors he never explained to anyone but himself. There were no signatures. No dates. But he knew them. They were pieces of him.
Someone — or something — was returning them to him.
On the final page, another message had appeared.
> If you won't speak, your words will.
Let them out. Let them crawl back home.
He closed the journal with shaking fingers.
---
Liora's House – Afternoon Light
She had tried to ignore the story. Tried to pass it off as a cruel trick from an obsessive fan. But that night, a second package arrived. This one contained a draft with red ink in the margins.
Edric's kind of red.
He had always edited in red — hated blue, called it a coward's ink.
The edits were personal. The phrases had layers only she would understand. Inside jokes they never told out loud.
A sentence circled twice:
"He gave her the words she needed to climb the ladder, and she left him at the base, still bleeding."
Her chest tightened.
A line like that doesn't come from an imitator. It comes from a memory.
She opened her laptop and typed "Edric Vale death article" into her search bar.
She hadn't looked in years.
There it was: "Tragic Fire Claims Controversial Novelist's Life."
And beside it, her old quote: "Sometimes people write things that aren't true — even in real life."
She closed the laptop with a slam, her breath quickening. There was no one to talk to about it. Not anymore.
She had built her success on burying him.
But what if the grave never held?
---
Mira Corners Jalen
Mira found him in the park. Always the same bench. Always at dusk.
He was staring at the pond as if expecting something to rise from it. The notebook was in his lap — the same one she'd seen at the library.
"You're hard to track down," she said, standing beside the bench.
He didn't look at her. "Not really. I just stay where the noise can't find me."
"I think I know who you are."
That got his attention. He turned. Calmly. Eyes like burnt pages.
"You're Jalen Thorn," she continued. "Except you're not. Not really. You write like someone who died five years ago."
Silence.
"I found your voice in an old magazine. Edric Vale's column. It's not just similar — it's exact."
Still no response.
"You could tell me I'm crazy," Mira offered. "You'd be right. But I've followed too many ghosts in my life to mistake instinct."
He finally spoke. "Then you should be careful. Ghosts don't like being followed."
She smiled. "That's the thing, though. This ghost writes back."
---
The Return of the Voice
Later that night, Liora received a voicemail from an unlisted number.
She nearly ignored it. But the voice — scratchy, hollow, like it was speaking through a tunnel — froze her blood when she pressed play.
> "I remember everything, Liora. The night you left. The manuscript you kept. The quote you stole.
I remember the fire."
Static.
> "Did you think a lie lasts longer than the truth?
I'm not here for revenge.
I'm here for correction."
The message ended with the sound of paper tearing.
She dropped her phone and ran to her study.
The manuscript sat on her desk, exactly where she left it.
Only now, the dedication page had changed.
It had a name.
"To Edric Vale, who taught me everything I know."
She hadn't written that.
Her knees buckled.
---
Jalen's Apartment – That Same Hour
He was writing again.
Not for the world. Not for redemption.
He was writing because the words had found their way back to him. Like blood returning to a stopped heart.
The pen moved without pause.
Every story was a memory. Every phrase a reckoning.
> "She stole the quill and claimed she bled for it.
But it was his blood — every drop of it."
The ink glowed faintly under the lamplight.
And for the first time since he woke in this life, he smiled.
---
Mira's Desk – The Wall of Strings
Red thread now connected photos, clippings, and post-its on her bedroom wall.
In the center: Edric Vale's obituary.
Next to it: Liora's quote, highlighted.
Below it: Jalen Thorn's blurry photo.
Mira stared at the arrangement like a detective stares at the shape of a confession forming.
"I don't know how," she whispered to herself. "But he's back."
And then her phone buzzed.
A new message. No sender.
Just a photo.
A page from one of Edric's destroyed journals.
And scrawled on the bottom, in blood-red ink:
> "If you want the truth, meet me at the place where I died."
---
✒️ End of Chapter 4