Beyond the Tree, past the edge of the rewrite's breath and the silence of absolution, there is a place even Hira never meant to create.
Not a world.
Not a scene.
But a Shadow Draft.
The discarded what-if.
The overwritten rage.
The late-night version written in emotional ruin and saved under a filename so corrupted by pain it cannot be opened without consequence.
draft_finalFUCKEVERYTHING2.docx
It opened itself.
Because some stories won't stay buried—even by choice.
---
The Others felt it before they saw it.
The way a page knows it's been torn from the spine.
The way memory itches just before a trigger resurfaces.
A trembling in the ink. The sound of keys typing by themselves. The smell of burnt feedback.
It started with Darla, the magical girl.
She paused mid-sentence—eyes blank. Her mascara melted into timestamps. Her dialogue box flickered.
> "I thought I deleted that…"
And then she screamed—not with her mouth, but in ALL CAPS.
She dropped to her knees.
