The night was quiet.
Too quiet.
Elyndra's home stood at the far end of the village, where the forest pressed close and the wind carried the faint smell of moss and river water. It was small — more a hut than a house — built of timber and woven reeds, its roof sagging gently in the middle. The air inside was warm, faintly scented with smoke and wild herbs. There was a kind of softness to the space, a lived-in peace that felt almost sacred.
She had prepared a place for me before I arrived.
A blanket folded neatly on the floor, a pillow beside it. But what drew my eye was not the neatness — it was the count.
Three pillows.
Three blankets.
Three places arranged as if waiting for company.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring. Three. Why three?
Was she married? Did someone else live here?
No — she looked too young, too untouched by time to have a family of her own. Still, the arrangement felt deliberate. Almost ritualistic, as though she had made room not for people, but for presence.
The thought unsettled me.
I told myself it didn't matter. That I was reading too much into small things.
But deep down, I knew better — small things were the ones the Writer loved to twist.
When she didn't return by nightfall, I waited in silence, watching the lamp flicker. The light played across the walls like words being written, erased, and rewritten again.
Then, at last, I heard the soft creak of the door.
Elyndra stepped in, carrying a child — a boy no older than seven, perhaps eight. He had messy brown hair and eyes the color of embered glass — red, but warm, curious. He clung to her sleeve as they entered, peering at me from behind her with shy fascination.
"This is my neighbor's child," Elyndra said, setting him down gently. "His name is Lioran. His mother works through the night sometimes, so I watch over him when she's away."
Lioran's gaze flickered between us, cautious but searching. For a heartbeat, our eyes met — and something in his stare made my chest tighten. He looked at me as though he recognized me from a place that shouldn't exist. Then, quickly, he hid behind Elyndra's skirt, pretending shyness.
I tried to smile, though it felt like lying.
Elyndra busied herself by the hearth. She poured water into a small pot, added vegetables and herbs, and let it simmer. The scent filled the hut — simple, human, grounding. For a while, the world felt quiet again, stable.
Before eating, she pressed her hands together and murmured a prayer. The words were old — I didn't understand them, but I could feel the reverence in her tone. It wasn't just a ritual. It was belief — the kind of belief that could keep reality from collapsing, if only for a while.
Lioran mimicked her, mumbling the prayer with half-formed words. I hesitated, feeling that invisible gaze above me — the one that had rewritten the sky.
I bowed my head too, unsure whether I was praying to the god or against it.
When we ate, the warmth of the food spread through my chest. Elyndra laughed softly at Lioran's stories — tales of catching fish, of a talking crow near the well. She looked so alive when she laughed, her eyes glowing with that strange calm she always carried.
For a moment, I forgot the ink and the pen.
For a moment, I could almost believe this world was real.
Later, when the bowls were empty and the fire had burned low, we lay down on the blankets. The boy nestled close to Elyndra, his small form outlined by the dim light. I lay a short distance away, facing the ceiling, watching the shadows flicker.
Outside, the forest whispered faintly — but even that sound felt written. Perfectly placed. Measured. Intentional.
I turned on my side. The boy's eyes were still open, glinting faintly.
Then he whispered, "Elyndra… tell me a story."
She smiled in the dark. "A story? At this hour?"
"Please," he murmured.
Her sigh was gentle. "Alright, then."
She sat up slightly, the lamplight touching her face. Shadows danced over her hair, her eyes distant — unfocused, almost hollow. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a strange rhythm.
"Do you know the story," she said softly, "of the man who didn't belong to the story?"
My pulse stopped.
The air froze around me.
Elyndra wasn't looking at me — her gaze drifted upward, empty, as though she were reading something written on the ceiling. But her words… they weren't hers. They couldn't be. I had heard that voice before, the cadence of it — calm, deliberate, divine.
"The man," she continued, "was born outside the tale. He woke one day to find himself in a world already half-written. Everyone around him spoke the words of another. The trees, the rivers, the skies — all belonged to the story he could never be part of."
I wanted to move. To speak. To stop her.
But I couldn't. The weight of her voice pinned me still.
"He searched for meaning," she said, "thinking he was chosen. But he was not chosen — only misplaced. A line that wandered into the wrong page."
Her tone deepened, colder now.
"The world tried to contain him. It rewrote itself, again and again, so that he would fit. But each time it did, something cracked — something slipped between the seams."
My throat tightened. I could hear my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
She paused, her lips trembling faintly. And when she spoke again, it was no longer Elyndra's voice.
It was the same voice that had written the world into being.
"Because the moment he learns who writes him," it whispered, "the pen will stop."
The lamp flickered once — then went out.
The darkness that followed was complete.
No wind. No sound. Just the faint echo of those words burning through my skull.
Elyndra exhaled softly. When she spoke again, it was her — her tone, her warmth, her confusion.
"Lioran?" she whispered. "Already asleep?"
She turned toward me with a faint smile, her eyes gentle in the faint light of the embers.
"I suppose that story wasn't very exciting," she said lightly.
I didn't answer.
Couldn't.
My mouth was dry, and my hands were trembling slightly under the blanket. The divine scent of ink hung faintly in the air — like burnt parchment and rain.
Outside, something stirred. The wind, slow and cautious, brushed against the wooden walls as though testing if the world still held form.
I looked toward the ceiling again.
And for the briefest heartbeat, I saw it — faint, translucent — the shape of a hand above us, holding a pen made of light. It hung there, waiting. Watching.
Then it withdrew, fading into the void beyond the roof.
Elyndra hummed softly beside the sleeping child. She seemed untouched by what had passed, her breathing calm, her presence real — too real. But I could still feel it: that unseen gaze pressing down upon me, patient and cruel.
The Writer had spoken again.
Through her.
And every time it did, the world felt thinner — as though one more layer of illusion had been peeled away.
I turned on my back, staring into the dark, whispering words no one would hear.
"If you're watching," I said softly, "then write carefully."
Because I was beginning to understand something terrible.
I wasn't just inside the story anymore.
I was becoming aware of its edges — and awareness, I suspected, was the one thing the story would never forgive.