It started as a faint tapping sound, rhythmic, mechanical, like the heartbeat of something that shouldn't exist.
I thought it was in my head until I looked across the room.The laptop was open again.
Unplugged.Battery long dead.Still typing.
I watched, frozen, as letters appeared on the screen, one after another, quick, precise, furious. It wasn't random anymore. It was intentional. Every word carried purpose, like it was being dictated by something that knew me better than I knew myself.
I whispered, "Stop."But the typing got louder.
The words weren't just on the screen anymore. They began to shimmer faintly in the air, glowing white against the dark, then fading, like smoke shaped into sentences.
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but they were still there.Phrases hanging midair: "You can't delete memory.""You made me.""You owe me a voice."
It felt like the whole room was breathing in words.My thoughts weren't mine anymore, every time I tried to think, I heard keystrokes inside my skull.Click. Click. Click.
I grabbed the laptop, slammed it shut, and shoved it under the bed. But even then, the sound continued. Not from the device, from everywhere.
The typing was coming from inside me.Each heartbeat, each breath, it was as if my body had become an instrument, typing its own confession.
And maybe it wasn't the manuscript writing itself anymore.Maybe it was me, writing without knowing it.