Chapter 3: Paper Doesn't Burn in Dreams
> "A lie repeated enough becomes memory. But what becomes of truth when it's forgotten?"
— Unknown
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The street was silent, yet full of murmurs. Not sounds — not voices — but murmurs that touched the edge of perception, like fingerprints left on glass long after the hand was gone.
Ranzō stood at the end of an alley that should not have existed. The buildings bent unnaturally inward, as if trying to listen to something that wasn't there. The ground beneath his feet pulsed with a faint rhythm — not mechanical, not organic, but... deliberate.
He held the notebook again. But this time, when he opened it, the pages were black.
No ink. No words. Only void.
A boy passed him. Or maybe it was a memory of a boy — half-transparent, dragging a broken toy with eyes scratched out. The boy didn't look up. He whispered something, but the air swallowed the sound.
Ranzō didn't speak. He only followed.
They walked into a building that looked like a school but had no doors. Just entrances that ended in brick walls.
Inside, the ceiling was covered in strings. Thousands of them, each tied to a photo. The photos moved when Ranzō looked at them — as if trying to avoid his eyes.
One string was broken. One photo was missing.
He knew — without knowing — that this was his fault.
And then he saw it: a girl standing in the corner of the ceiling, upside down, staring directly at him with eyes full of ash. She smiled.
> "Why didn't you write about me, Ranzō?"
He blinked. She was gone. The strings began to unravel. One by one, they fell. The photos burned silently mid-air, without flame, without smoke.
He looked at his hand.
The notebook was gone.
But the pen — the long, needle-like pen — was now inside his palm.
Not held.
Inserted.
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> The paper doesn't burn in dreams.
But dreams burn into memory.
And memory… lies.
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