Mira stood at the edge of the story-world, where sky and parchment-hills met like brushstrokes in a divine painting. Every step she took left behind letters — actual letters — trailing behind her footprints. The landscape itself seemed to hum with unfinished sentences and half-whispered tales.
This was no longer just a story.
It was a living manuscript.
Ahead, Mira spotted figures — beings made entirely of words and ink, shaped like people but translucent, like ghosts written into existence. They turned as she approached, their eyes glowing with curiosity. One stepped forward. His skin shimmered with script from different languages, and on his chest was a sigil: an open book with burning wings.
"We are the Bookborn," he said, his voice layered with a thousand voices. "Created from the first stories ever told. Guardians of imagination."
Mira blinked. "Why am I here?"
"Because you remembered," another Bookborn said softly — this one shaped like a girl with braids of thread and text woven into her hair. "You remembered the forgotten. You faced the shadow."
Mira looked around. "Is this… the source of all stories?"
The lead Bookborn nodded. "The Library That Moves exists because of this place. But its movement is failing. The Veil between worlds is thinning. The shadows are not just old tales — they are lost ones. Twisted, abandoned. Hungry to be remembered, even in darkness."
"And I'm supposed to stop them?"
"No," he replied. "You're supposed to rewrite them."
A sudden quake shook the skies — and the shadows began to leak in.
One of the Bookborn handed Mira a glowing quill.
"Write carefully," she said. "The next chapter rewrites not only this world — but yours."
Mira held the quill tightly, the wind rising.
Everything she was, everything she had learned — was ink.
And now, she would choose what to write.
(Fun stories by Gabrielle Ehi).