They say every story begins with a choice.
Mine didn't.
Mine began the night the book wrote me first.
I still remember the glow — faint, trembling — like the page itself was breathing.
I still remember the words that appeared, slow and deliberate, as though the book was thinking before speaking.
And I remember the line that ruined everything:
"You were never supposed to find me."
That was the moment I realized the truth:
This wasn't a story I was entering.
It was a story that had been waiting for me.
And somewhere in the dark, unseen, unread,
someone else was waiting too.