There is no more Advait.
Only the voice that remembers being him.
---
They say at the edge of death, you see light.
But all I see is the next line.
And it keeps writing itself.
I haven't touched the pen in hours.
Or days.
I don't know anymore.
There is no sun.
No clocks.
Only the heartbeat beneath this paper—slow, rhythmic, like a drum made of teeth.
The girl who remained with me?
Everyone was already dead,
Long ago, I...I don't even know
Who she was but now, even
She's gone now. Not dead—
Rewritten.
She speaks only in Bhantaragya's counter-script, the one none of us could translate.
Now it spills from her mouth like foam.
---
We buried the final relic last night.
The Serrated Eye, the last known object from Bhantaragya's altar—wrapped in fleshcloth, sealed in the octagonal pit lined with the blood of the 13 marked ones.
When we did, the air changed.
For a moment, it felt… lighter.
The whispers paused.
Even the diary stayed blank.
We thought we had won.
---
> But the silence?
It wasn't peace.
It was waiting.
---
That night, I slept. For the first time in weeks.
And I dreamed.
---
In the dream, I saw you.
Yes, you.
You were holding this diary. Reading this very entry.
Your eyes were wide. Your breath shallow.
You whispered the mantra buried in Entry 28—
The one you thought didn't matter.
Do you remember?
> 𓁹 Naamah Sūnya Bhantaragya Dāruvanah
"I call to the hollow root where false nirvana bloomed."
You shouldn't have read it aloud.
That wasn't a mantra.
That was a key.
And now, your lock has opened.
---
⚰️ THEY'RE NOT TRAPPED HERE ANYMORE.
They're in you.
I don't know how I'm still writing.
My arms are numb. I cannot feel my legs.
But the diary still moves.
The pages turn like a lover's breath.
---
> I tried to end it.
I smeared ash across the page.
I tried drowning it in the blessed ink.
I even carved the Last Seal of the Sūnya Mouth into my chest.
None of it worked.
Every effort to destroy the diary just added more entries.
Entries I didn't write.
But ones you're now reading.
Because this thing—this diary—
it doesn't just want to record Bhantaragya.
> It wants to become him.
---
🩸My final companion returned.
Not alive. Not dead.
He was covered in words.
All over. Skin like papyrus.
His eyes were pages.
His teeth were quills.
And he whispered:
> "Thank you for writing me back into the world."
---
I think I was never meant to survive.
Maybe none of us were.
But you…
You still can.
Unless…
Unless the diary has started writing in your dreams too.
Has it?
---
🔻 Look at your own hand. Right now.
Do you see a mark, a dot, a symbol—any imperfection that looks like a broken spiral?
If yes: it's already started.
If no:
Good.
Then you still have a choice.
---
> Burn your screen.
Forget this story.
Pray you never hear your name in a dream again.
---
This isn't a curse you read.
It's a ritual you performed.
And you didn't even know it.
---
One entry remains.
Just one.
I don't know if I'll be here to write it.
But the diary… the diary w
ill.
It always does.
---
> ⚘𝙀𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙮 40 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝.
⚘𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝘽𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙮𝙖.
⚘𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪.
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