The morning light was weak, pale against the mist rolling down the hills. Nira sat at the edge of her grandmother's study desk, the notebook open before her.
She hadn't slept well. Arian's warning echoed in her mind:
"Trust yourself more than the ink."
But how could she, when the ink was alive?
The pages shifted slightly as if breathing. Yesterday's line — "She will meet him tomorrow, but she will not believe him" — stared up at her. Nira traced the letters with her fingertip, heart hammering.
Something deep inside her whispered that she couldn't ignore it.
She rummaged through the old boxes, searching for letters or diaries that might shed light on her mother, Aanya.
Years ago, her mother had been distant, secretive. Nira remembered small fragments: whispered phone calls, hastily closed notebooks, nights when Aanya would sit staring into the dark. She had never asked why. She didn't know then that the answers might be dangerous.
Among the dusty papers, Nira found a bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. The handwriting was familiar — not Amaira's, but her mother's: careful, deliberate, yet tense.
To Amaira,
I think it's working. The timeline shifts are subtle, but they're there. I can feel it. Nira… I hope she never knows.
Nira's hands trembled. Her mother had written about her, in secret, long before she existed.
Another letter followed:
It's becoming harder to keep the patterns consistent. The notebook responds unpredictably.
I fear for her — my daughter — if the sequence falters.
Her breath caught. The words were a warning, a confession, and a plea.
Nira sank into the chair, clutching the letters. Questions swarmed in her mind. Why had her mother hidden this from her? Had Aanya known the notebook would choose her?
Then came a faint rustling from the corner. She glanced up. The notebook had moved. A new page had appeared, the handwriting matching her mother's style:
"She must decide soon. Too much ink leaves no margin for life."
Nira's pulse raced. Decide? What decision?
The room seemed to close in around her. Shadows flickered across the walls. She realized she had spent hours in the study, hours she couldn't account for, lost in the weight of her mother's past.
Her phone buzzed, pulling her back. A message from Sera:
"Hey, you awake? We should catch up tomorrow. I miss you."
Nira hesitated, thumb hovering. Should she reply? Or should she focus on the notebook, on the letters that seemed to whisper across time?
The answer came when she turned the page again. A new entry had appeared:
"Tomorrow, she will uncover what was always hidden."
Nira's stomach twisted. She understood now — the past was not past. The notebook was pulling her into her mother's choices, into patterns she could not yet see.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow called. The sound was sharp, warning, like the snap of a page. Nira looked down at the letters. The decision was no longer hers to ignore.
She knew she had to follow the trail.
To her mother's hidden past.
And perhaps, to the truth of the notebook itself.