Epigraph 01: Do you trust reality‽
Who, what, why, how... any questions you have about me are pointless. All I ask is that you pray for the four names listed below.
I don't care if you believe in prayer, who you pray to, or what you pray for. Just send positive thoughts to those four names, because that's all we can do for them.
If you found this book in the fiction section, return it to the nonfiction section. What these heroes have done is all too real. Without them, there would be no "us."
They are the creator, the destroyer, and everything in between. And right now, they are fighting for us—in the shadows, beyond realities.
But power comes at a cost. And in exchange for ultimate power… one loses everything.
Trust me when I say: They have lost everything.
Benevolence is the only reason they still fight.
To those complaining that I haven't mentioned the four names, you've read them—more than once. Maybe you laughed at their strangeness. Then forgot them the moment you moved on.
But fret not. True gods don't care for praise or insults from ants. They're too busy reaching new heights and gifting us the one thing they lack: peace of mind.
What follows are actual incidents, compiled directly from my journal, that have quietly saved our reality.
Confusing? Stay with me.
And no matter what, don't forget to manifest and send positive energy to the four heroes. Every sliver of goodwill can be converted—can protect us.
Still have doubts? Ask yourself this: Do you trust reality as it presents itself?
Haven't you noticed a gap your mind quietly patched over to keep you sane? How did we evolve into a species that now discovers mysticism through science, when not long ago, we believed only in magic?
If science is simply applied magic, and gods are the greatest scientists of all time, how difficult would it be to simulate reality?
Ignore me if you think this is nonsense.
But if not, follow my instructions exactly—no shortcuts.
For those who care to know our heroes, their four perspectives await. Together, they converge to protect our world.
Do your own research. Question what you see. And pray nothing happens to these four pillars.
Because if reality collapses, hell won't be something we fear; it'll become the unattainable mercy we crave.
As you live… Always ask yourself: If "free will" is the highest ideal, whether for mortal or god, what must be sacrificed to achieve it?
And if there is a price, is 'free will' truly free?
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Hazy Prologue.
A car—if one could call a scrap heap with four worn-down wheels, a dented frame on the verge of collapse, and a flimsy sheet for a roof a 'car'—hosted a family of four as they crept down a narrow hill on the outskirts of Delta 'z.
Calling this deathtrap a car was a stretch, even for the Sowles. But this junker had hauled them away from a drama-filled past into a future thick with hardship. And now, it was the same rust bucket dragging them back. It remained their only mode of transportation, and the only one they could afford.
Thanks to a confused engine that either thought the tank was full or that a 50/50 mix of water and fuel still counted as gas—and thanks to a buddy who skimmed fuel from a bunk—the car ran farther than it ever should have. That's not even counting the other inexplicable miracles keeping it alive.
Fate never let them upgrade. And nostalgia never let them abandon this ticking time bomb of a car.
Once again, life had dealt the Sowles a bad hand. And now they were heading back to their old neighborhood—their old life in the big city.
Delta'z had started as an experiment: a fresh start for the Sowles, and something more secretive—more sinister—for the government. The latter, predictably, blew up in unexpected ways, forcing a town-wide evacuation.
As usual, the Sowles were the last to take the hint. This meant they missed the government's compensation package and any hope of assistance with relocation or rebuilding.
The once up-and-coming town turned into a ghost town overnight. The Sowles were the last to leave. All their savings went into a cramped, two-hundred-square-foot apartment and a storage unit—just big enough to store their rusty heap of metal they call a car.
Driving this in the city... well, I'll leave the rest to your imagination!
Unable to bribe his way back into the position he believed he deserved, the family's breadwinner was demoted from town sheriff to a beat cop.
Back to their sweat spot: Square one.
Klaire, the Sowles' only child and their sole bundle of joy, kept telling them to step on others to get ahead, yet no one listened. To make matters worse, they kept calling her 'cute' instead of praising her brilliant, if morally dubious, plans.
Even now, as Amina Sowle held her tight to her chest, shielding her from the freezing wind slicing through the many holes in the car's frame and from the fragile contraption barely holding itself together, Klaire kept finding ways to slip free.
They had barely clawed their way into the positive side of life, and that was with Mr. Poopyhead Liam (aka Dad) ignoring Klaire's brilliant ideas about accepting bribes or swindling the rich. After shouldering the burden of honesty and scraping together a decent living, they were now being dragged back to the pit they'd once crawled out of—thanks to a stupendous, one-time lucky break.
God knows He must have dropped that luck by mistake when He crafted the Sowles' journey.
Back to all the hate. Back to all the drama. And this time, without a sliver of hope.
Because everyone knows: only people like Klaire survive in the city of sin. Amina and Liam—Mom and Dad—would be eaten alive. Figuratively, and, in certain parts of the city, literally.
In short, the burden of keeping the Sowle family name alive had fallen on the tiny but capable shoulders of Klaire. She already had several plans in motion, especially since the Sowles (excluding her opinion entirely) had decided to stop at just one child.
Financially, sure, it made sense. But Klaire had wanted a punching bag or a slave. You know... a 'sibling,' in normal human terms.
Whenever Amina's frustration reached a crescendo, her grip on Klaire would loosen and redirect itself, usually around Liam's neck. Klaire used these glorious moments to slip away from her mother and get back to filming her video blog.
Everyone loves an underdog story, especially one rising out of a ghost town. One lucky vlog could set them up for life.
<>| Klaire |<>
"Hey there, world, nonexistent family members, and all you creepy peeping Toms with an unhealthy interest in my life," Klaire smirked into the lens. "I'm Klaire. That's with a 'T,' followed by an 'A,' 'N,' and two other letters I'll reveal at the end of this vlog."
She winked at the camera and blew a kiss.
"See? I'm not that interesting. I mean... 'to me' I am. But to you? Probably not. Especially 'you,' Peeper." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Still, I notice things no one else does. I imagine worlds no one else can. Other than that, there's absolutely nothing remotely interesting going on in my life right now."
Klaire tilted her phone's camera, giving viewers a shaky glimpse of the ghost town they were leaving behind. The camera caught the edges of her long face and wide, bulging eyes, but she didn't care. She kept going in the same casual, confident tone.
"And yes... I can talk big. Thanks to TV," she said with dramatic flair. "A lot of it!"
She leaned into the camera. "But I can't write or spell it out for ya, so just listen to my squeaky little voice, which, I'm told, is 'super cute' for a four-year-old. And will 'stay' cute... whenever Mom's around."
She dropped to a whisper and crept closer to the small camera phone. "Because Amina will 'kill' me if she finds out."
The camera zoomed in shakily to reveal her mother's furrowed brow as Klaire returned to her usual tone.
"No full face. Pri-va--cy reasons."
She focused the camera on one wide eye, glaring at her imaginary audience.
"And 'no!' I can't count... yet. The only number I know is four, which I'm currently off! I think? I keep forgetting. Time seems to move way too fast at my age. Most of it is lost to sleeping and editing."
Klaire held the camera at arm's length, staring solemnly into the lens. "For now, I'm the glue that holds my family together. Well... what's 'left' of it, anyway?"
She glanced toward the front seat, voice dropping again. "Mom says it's not my fault they got... abond... abawn--left. Left by their family. But I know for a fact that Dad's boo-boo got me involved in the drama way before I was supposed to."
"What are you doing?" Amina glared at Klaire with one eye, the other still locked on Liam.
"Eh! Scary!" Klaire shuddered, hiding the phone in her skirt. "Boo-boo!" she blurted, forcing Amina to look away.
"Okay! I don't know what boo-boo is. Dad only told me so much. But ever since then, it's become my 'power word.' Whenever I get caught doing something, I just shout it. And poof! Everyone turns pink and forgets what I was cooking up."
Amina pulled Klaire back into her arms, snuggling her close. But as soon as Liam opened his mouth, Amina's fury reignited, loosening her grip just enough for Klaire to pull the phone out again and resume filming.
"I mean... how hard can it be to make two families understand their kids just wanna be together?" Klaire asked her fans, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. "Anywho... that made Mama's family kick her out. And according to Dad, he had to follow, or Mom would've killed him. You see, he was dead either way."
She gave the camera a nod of approval. "If you haven't guessed it yet, we don't live in an open-minded society. I don't actually know what that means, but I hear it a lot and it sounds super catchy."
She dropped her voice again. "So yeah. We have each other's backs. Or... we have to. Otherwise, Mom will break ours."
Klaire tilted her head in mock reflection. "I remember snitching on Dad once. We both got punished for his crime."
"AH!" she yelped theatrically, clutching her chest. "The pain comes with the memory."
Amina saw her shiver and thought Klaire was cold, so she pulled her back into an ironclad mom-hug.
Liam spotted a small speed breaker two hundred meters away, and yet, the state of the car forced his eyes to evolve past human limits. He slammed the brakes, praying their death trap would come to a stop in time.
It didn't.
The car jerked over the bump like a toddler tripping on concrete, launching John's head into the roof and out into the freezing weather above.
"How many times do I have to remind you to stay low?" Liam barked at John, his voice rattling what was left of their windshield.
"Shh...!" Klaire and Amina hissed in unison, fingers pressed to their lips.
Their combined cuteness short-circuited Liam's rage. His heart squeezed and pumped out whatever anger was left.
"Oh! And Uncle John..." Klaire tilted her camera up to a tall figure, his head sticking comically out of both the shot and the car's roof.
John was too tall for a bus roof, let alone a flimsy four-seater meant for Lilliputians.
"He was kicked out 'way' before," Klaire added with mock innocence. "I had nothing to do with that. He got canned because of all the crazy experiments he kept doing."
She adjusted the camera again, brushing her unkempt bangs from her eyes. "Which brings us to why I'm celebrating my fifth or sixth birthday in a car."
Klaire cleared her throat and waved a hand in front of the lens.
"Let me dramatize this for effect and reduce my boredom in one go…"
Her voice shifted to a somber narration: "Grim, dark clouds glowing with flares of mauve lightning zaps... I have no clue what mauve is, so don't comment crap. Only listen. Grim, dark clouds trailed the sky with no end in sight. They'd already swallowed the horizon and now cast their hungry gaze upon the world below. Rest? That was a joke. Fortunes built by blood and sweat—wiped clean. Relationships forged over decades—"
Her poetic musings were cut short by a familiar beep. The flip-phone died in her hand.
"Wish it saved the footage," she mumbled, offering a small, defeated prayer to the dead screen.
Amina tugged her back onto her lap, whispering into her ear. "No car, no storm, no one gets to take you from me. Not while I'm breathing."
The toxic air outside hissed and clawed, biting through rusted metal in random spots. Temperatures plummeted to inhuman lows, only to rise in bursts hot enough to melt steel in seconds.
The world had gone mad.
Human or stone, both were cursed the same.
Both melted.
Both crumbled.
It might have been wiser to stay back home. Maybe under a table. Better yet, in a basement.
The rich cursed their fortunes and their towering skyscrapers, while the poor sat quietly, indifferent to the end.
After all, for them, it was always going to be something: the weather, the rich, the hunger, the silence, or a million other reasons that could be their last.
In this godforsaken world, choosing your end was just another privilege.
While the rest of the world scrambled to crawl into another dimension, the Sowles were acting a bit more peculiar than usual.
Klaire V-oleuse Sowle—yes, that is her middle name, don't ask—was wedged alongside her mother, Amina Sowle, in the passenger seat of a repurposed police car. A car held together by tape, prayers, and Liam's persistent delusion that things were "just fine."
Klaire, ever the vigilant saboteur, poked her tiny golden-brown toes through one of the many holes in the car's rust-bitten floor. Liam had tried to cover them with duct tape. Tried.
He could fool other cops. He could maybe fool Amina on a good day. But Klaire? She was way too smart for that kind of tom-trickery.
Each time she slipped off Amina's lap, her mother yanked her back and shoved her into the fraying seatbelt. Eventually, Amina gave up, not because she couldn't win, but because she didn't want her frown to deepen any more than it already had.
Klaire took it as a win.
If she couldn't play with the flesh-eating wind, she would at least play with the ominous lightning.
So she climbed onto the dashboard like it was a stage made for her, and pressed her palms against the windshield, pretending to push back the incoming sky zaps.
ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!
Then, a monstrous growl. Thunder rumbled closer, louder, deeper, like a monster chewing gravel.
Klaire narrowed her eyes. Those flares weren't random anymore. They were chasing them.
Or maybe she was deflecting every bolt with sheer force of will?
Who's to say?
Determined to protect her family, Klaire slammed both palms against the windshield again, hard.
WHUMP!
Amina shot her a glare so sharp it could've sliced lightning in half.
"I 'told' you," she hissed through clenched teeth, "one good bump and that glass is flying off like it's got plans!"
And yet, in that moment, being outside in the ashy, burning wind didn't sound half as bad as being crammed in the passenger seat of a barely-legal car, with Klaire squirming on her lap, and her brother handcuffed in the back; moaning every time the vehicle hit a bump.
Yes, John. The one and only.
John was cuffed to the only piece of metal in the car that had yet to be condemned by rust.
In all the stunts Liam had pulled in their marriage, he was grateful that, for once, he had an excuse to be hiding behind the wheel.
He even wondered how it had taken him fourteen years of being a bumbling husband to realize the driver's seat was the safest place during an Amina eruption.
She blamed everything on him now. The storm. The car. The sky. Her brother.
"The weather too, Liam?" she barked, voice rising with the thunder. "You better have a real good explanation this time, because I'm seconds away from kicking you straight into those clouds!"
She was glowing and radiating fury—a flaring, red-hot stew of maternal exhaustion and unchecked rage.
Which should've been impossible, given her complexion.
But Amina Sowle had long since learned how to defy the laws of nature. Like the rest of this damn family.
"Because this is my car," Liam offered, trying to lighten the mood.
"Yeah, and for a cop, you seriously suck at reading the room," a deep voice interrupted from above.
John W. Sowle, broadcasting from the roof like a brooding gargoyle. His pointy, wide ears twitched slightly—natural antennae tuned to nearby arguments. Eavesdropping came easily when you were built like a tower, and the car crawled at ten miles an hour. Up there, above the drama, there was no wind, no pressure. Just John, comfortably removed from the chaos below.
Amina's fury, already at a steady boil, redirected itself like a missile toward her brother.
John preferred to ride with his head out of range of her glare and for good reason. Crammed in the back seat like a folded lawn chair, his long legs wrapped across two-thirds of the car. The handcuffs weren't necessary. He couldn't move even if he wanted to.
Usually, his charm made it difficult for women to stay mad at him. Unfortunately, Amina wasn't like most women. She only got angrier the more she looked at him.
"Why isn't J riding with us?" Klaire giggled, bouncing back into the moment. She pointed her camera up toward her uncle, snorting as he struggled with the cuffs.
"You wouldn't believe it," Amina said, "but somehow my dumb little brother is dumber than your father. Same blood. Half the brains. Not even half. A quarter, maybe."
"Hey! He's not dumb," Liam piped up, throwing a supportive arm in John's direction.
"Oh, dearest little sister," John cut in with mock affection, "I am eons smarter than he."
"Says the guy handcuffed in my back seat. Yep. Real genius," Liam snapped back.
"Says the guy escorting a psychopath with his family." John chuckled.
Amina tugged hard on Liam's ear. "What did I say about calling yourself a cop while making idiotic decisions?"
Liam yelped, steering wheel jerking as she pulled him down by the ear.
Used to this kind of Sowle family drama—where someone was always yelling, pulling, or crashing into something—Klaire acted on instinct.
As the car drifted toward the divider, she launched into action: hopping off Amina's lap, grabbing the wheel with one hand and stomping the brake with her tiny foot.
The save felt heroic. In Klaire's blog, the car would screech to a cinematic halt inches from a deadly X-junction, spinning slightly, maybe a slow-motion shot of Amina shielding Klaire while sparks flew off the bumper.
In reality? The car wobbled slightly, lurched, and then gently rolled to a stop... five feet from the divider.
But hey, drama was a matter of perspective.
The streets of Boltamore, once a hive of chaos, were now hauntingly empty. No cars. No lights. Only ash and silence to be found.
The Sowles sat frozen, scanning for signs of life in silence.
Then, a shared breath of relief as the car escaped another dent that could end its misery.
"HEY!" both John and Liam shouted at Amina in unison.
"Teddy!" Klaire screamed alongside them, latching onto Amina's arm.
"That psychopath is your brother," Liam reminded Amina, gripping the wheel.
"HEY!" John banged the roof above Laim. "I'm not a psychopath! I may have accidentally created a small dimensional tear that might've split Earth in half, but it didn't work, so it doesn't count."
Klaire swirled across the arm and climbed back onto her mother's lap, eyes wide with mock judgment. "Okay... he is dumb."
Amina laughed—too sudden, too loud—like her body was trying to reset before it combusted. Klaire's perfectly-timed punchline saved both brothers from the wrath of a woman teetering on her last nerve.
Liam, on the other hand, didn't dwell on the fact that their entire bloodline would have nearly gone extinct at a city junction. Near-death moments had become a common enough occurrence to have become background noise.
What he regretted most was missing a chance to rub it in Amina's face. That was the Sowle way: never worry about what should matter, only on what could have been pettily avenged.
Like Klaire, who, in her moment of triumph, took her eyes off the lightning.
And in that single blink, it caught up.
It didn't miss this time.
The world didn't burn.
It vanished.
No ashes. No wreckage. No one.
Just silence.
When first responders arrived, they found a vehicle that had been hollowed out, scorched black, and partially dissolved into the road. Inside, a single ashen figure clutched an untouched child, her skin pristine but her eyes frozen wide. Klaire V-oleuse Sowle had survived—Physically.
Mentally?
Declared a threat to herself, she was locked away "for observation." Not for her safety, but because the insurance company couldn't process a death claim while the contract remained unfinished. Her parents had legitimately failed to die on paperwork.
Even in death, bureaucracy made the Sowles victims.
And the media?
They shredded Klaire's voice into digestible fiction as the headline read: TRAGIC ACCIDENT ON THE EDGE OF GHOST TOWN – CHILD SURVIVES 'IMMINENT EXPLOSION'
The reports said the explosion wiped the area clean. No signs of traditional combustion. Left with absence. Klaire, age five, spoke in riddles about what she saw:
Two figures at the center of a storm.
A ghost with long black hair and flickers of violet.
A lightning chase.
Something clawing its way into her, through her hair and her skin, until it cracked her world in half.
She remembered her curls—brown and bushy—braided by her mother each morning. Her eyes, once black, were a luminous golden amber. Her hair, tinged with dull purple strands. Proof, she claimed, that something else had survived alongside her.
They called her delusional.
They called it a "tragedy."
Klaire called it 'crap.'
She knew the news had only run the story because the world had grown boring. Her mom always said TV was garbage, and Klaire now agreed, down to the last overdramatized, under-researched, condescending frame.
No one cared until you became gossip-worthy.
Good or bad, it didn't matter. It never matters. Your story, your pain, your unraveling only mattered as long as it gave someone else something to talk about over a cup of coffee. At the same time, your tragedy becomes a narrative fuel for dinner conversations and midday television cuts for the elderly.
Klaire crushed the newspaper in her fist, cursing, "Kids half my age could come up with a better story," she snapped at the doctor across the sterile room.
He didn't flinch. Just jotted something in his notebook and extended Klaire's stay at the hospital, personally approving the costs. That, more than his silence, disturbed her.
Klaire gave herself one more day to "grow up," as if maturity were a cliff she could willingly jump from. She drowned in thoughts she never had time for, thoughts no one gave her space to think.
The journalists blamed the cops.
The nurses blamed the parents.
The world made it into gossip, but for her, it was a shitty prologue, written by the laziest god ever mistaken for loving. A trap. A tease. A nonsensical mess meant to lock the reader into a story that never should've been told.
"I can't remember what came before. I doubt I'll ever forget what came after. The accident reruns in my mind daily, looped like a bad movie with the sound cranked up to max. While everyone around me whispers never to mention it in my presence. Such idiots!"
--[Two months later]--
"Even if I didn't want to, I wrote the incident down—as my prologue.
"A pile of chaos that won't make sense until the end.
"And honestly? I wanted the story to end."
--[Four months later]--
"I wanted to know if that impossible moment—when the world broke—was a beginning... or as the gossipers called it, a lucky break."
--[Seven months later]--
"For the life of me, I still don't see what was lucky about it...
"This was the shittiest, most confusing, senseless, hazy beginning anyone could imagine."
--{A year after the incident}--
"The Sowles were either the first to witness something unimaginable... Or, as the professionals claimed, I'd gone insane.
"I started digging. I searched every archive, every newswire. I pulled up every weather report I could find. And somehow, not one source, not even a backwater blog, mentioned the storm on that day."
Not a single record, satellite glitch, or suspicious uptick in lightning strikes. Nothing.
A mistake shared by every human, every server, every AI?
And no one even blinked.
--[Fourteen months later]--
The detectives showed me the street cam footage.
The street was full of traffic.
The weather looked clear.
And for our car?
It exploded because of "poor maintenance."
My parents: Labeled reckless.
The footage... it looked real. Yet felt fake. Doctored.
A town-swallowing storm that twisted reality never happened.
According to the world, the end of the world only happened in my broken head.
A reality I dreamt up!
"Such weather missed the news," a nurse chuckled behind Klaire's door, thinking she was asleep.
'So much for being a 'sensitive case,' Klaire thought bitterly.
Neither the cops kept her statement confidential, nor did the nurses show the decency to whisper further from her room.
"Why would I dream up two men, a huge explosion, swirling colors plotting something, and my own parents' death?" she demanded once, cornering a nurse in a moment of clarity.
"Why would the world plot against a six-year-old?" the nurse replied gently, trying to soothe her, to guide her toward "acceptance."
"The world's moved on, kid. So should you. Accept it. Or forget it. There's no third option."
Klaire never acted like a child, not since the moment they wheeled her in on a wheelchair. Two years had passed since then. The nurse, seeing how childhood had been burned out of her, decided to try a different approach: treating her like the adult she claimed to be.
But all Klaire heard was the weight of that word: 'Two years.'
"Two years?" she whispered, blinking at the calendar on the wall. The numbers blurred behind a wall of tears.
I wasted two years... On thinking?
She tried to rise, but her legs didn't respond. Her body ignored her entirely.
"Why?" she asked aloud.
No one answered.
The nurse who'd been in her room seconds ago was gone, as if she had never been there to begin with.
"Spaced out again?" came a voice from the air vents.
"For almost an hour before I decided to leave," another voice replied—a voice eerily similar to the one Klaire thought she'd spoken with moments ago.
But… she said it had only been minutes.
Klaire's heart pounded. She tried to reach for her diary, the one filled with newspaper clippings and paranoid notes. Her mind pushed her arms outward—
—But in the real world, they didn't budge.
Her limbs were fused to her sides—years of stillness had made her skin grow around them—stitched to her ribs like some grotesque chrysalis.
She looked down. 'I'm not a girl anymore… I'm a worm,' she thought and chuckled to herself.
"I was… an overly imaginative kid," Klaire whispered. "Maybe I did imagine it all…"
She shut her eyes. Let the weight drag her down.
And she didn't open them again for a year.
Not until her body—somehow—recovered itself by some miracle, curse, or force unknown. Not until someone or something came.
--[Present day; Current Age: 09?]--
The doctors claimed they performed emergency procedures, bypassing her repeated pleas to be left alone.
After several hours of explanation, she decided not to sue. Not that she knew the first thing about the law that screwed her over without a second glance.
The person who signed off on those procedures was the same one who had to pick up the bills after the insurance company washed its hands of her case.
Now Klaire could move again. Walk. Speak. Blend in. But the diary, the only physical record of her truth, was never found.
She accepted the reality handed to her. At least, on paper. Which got her discharged that day.
Maybe she'd fooled the authorities into letting her out so she could chase the truth.
Or maybe, she'd only fooled herself. And the price for chasing shadows would be her sanity—again.
She was nine now. That's what the doctor said as he signed her out.
He had covered her bills for over three years—if that version of time was even real.
So she trusted his judgment enough to smile, nod, and leave.
For now, Klaire lived in both worlds: One where she was right. And one where everyone else was.
Until something—anything—brought undeniable proof.
Of course, in the version where Klaire's vision proved true, all of Hell would break loose.
And that, she decided, was a fair trade.
'Let it break,' she thought. 'Let it burn. Let the world that doubted me eat its own tail.'
"I was but a drifting cloud before the world decided to test my patience.
"Congratulations—for you have won.
"And now… if hell is what it takes. I shall free the demons trapped within and watch the chaos unfold with pleasure.
"For only distress brings forth beauty, only hate gives birth to love, and only deep within chaos… hides the real truth."
A truth that 'is' and 'isn't' conceivable.
A truth no one else would dare reach for, except for Klaire. And for that to happen, all of Hell had to break free!
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Epigraph 02: Klaire's Final Video Blog
Hey folks. It's been a while.
Sorry—not for disappearing, but for trying to make sense of the supernatural, while learning how to survive reality.
Fair warning: I'm not your usual girl. Don't try to find pieces of yourself in me—your fears, your flaws, your half-baked courage.
We are not the same.
I am the courage you wish you had when the world chewed you up and spat you out.
I am the choice you never made.
I am the action that only exists in your perfect daydreams.
My story? It's not a mirror. It's not a lesson. It's a far-fetched nightmare that I lived through. Because when the world turned its back on me, I turned my back on it.
...And I survived.
This is my tale. Not for comfort. Not for closure.
A tale that breaks beyond the norms of society.
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