The room still carried the scent of burnt paper, lingering like a ghost from the past. Ayan sat motionless, his body frozen in place, eyes fixed on the page he had written on just a few hours earlier. The ink had changed. What had once been his own handwriting now looked different—older, more defined, as though someone else had painstakingly carved the words into the paper.
He was certain he hadn't written that line.
A sudden wave of cold crept up his spine, as if the very air around him had turned against him.
That night, Ayan found himself unable to sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was forced to relive the same strange vision—pages flipping on their own, ink spreading across the paper like veins, whispers echoing in a language he almost recognized.
By 3:17 AM, he finally gave up, exhausted and frustrated.
The notebook was still on his desk.
Waiting.
He reached for it slowly, as if it might react to his touch.
"Okay… enough," he muttered to himself.
"Either I'm losing my mind, or this thing is."
The moment his fingers brushed the cover, a sharp pulse shot through his hand, like a jolt of electricity.
The pages flipped open violently on their own.
A rush of wind howled through the closed room, sending dust swirling in the air.
And then—
The words on the page began to change.
Ayan stumbled back, heart pounding.
New lines formed across the page:
"The one who writes shall witness."
"The one who doubts shall suffer."
"The ink has chosen."
"Chosen?"
Ayan whispered, his voice barely audible. "Chosen for what?!"
The room fell into an eerie silence.
Too quiet.
Then came the knock.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
Ayan's heart stopped.
No one was supposed to visit at this hour.
Another knock.
This time, louder.
He walked toward the door, each step heavier than the last, as though the floor itself resisted his movement.
"Who is it?"
he called out.
No answer.
Only silence… and then—
A voice.
Soft.
Whispered almost inside his mind.
"You opened it."
Ayan froze.
"I didn't open anything!"
he snapped, fear creeping into his voice.
"But you wrote."
The door creaked open on its own, without a sound.
No one was there.
But something was.
The hallway lights flickered, casting strange, elongated shadows across the walls.
And on the wall—
Words.
Written in the same ink.
"Chapter 2 has begun."
Ayan turned back toward the notebook.
It was no longer on the desk.
It was on his bed.
Open.
Waiting.
As he stepped closer, a final line etched itself onto the page:
"You are no longer the author."
Ayan whispered, barely audible—
"…then who is?"
And the lights went out.