The notebook sits between us on the kitchen table like a sleeping creature—quiet, unassuming, yet humming with an energy that coils through the air. Lorean and I hover over it, neither of us daring to touch it again.
The house feels different now.
Not just quiet, but watchful.
Like the walls know what we've found.
Lorean breaks the silence first.
"We… we shouldn't use it," she whispers. "Wren, what if something goes wrong?"
Something has already gone wrong.
Our parents disappeared.
An old man tracked me down with a warning.
And somewhere out there, someone feels this notebook stirring.
But my sister's fear twists something inside me. I pull my chair closer to her, trying to sound braver than I feel.
"We don't have to do anything dangerous," I say softly. "But we have to understand what it is."
Lorean hugs her knees to her chest. "What if understanding it is what makes it dangerous?"
I look down at my hands. Ink stains the edges of my fingers—ghosts of last night's writing. I've always used words to escape. To create. To make sense of the chaos.
Now, words have become something else.
A threat.
A key.
A weapon.
"I'll start small," I say. "Something harmless."
"Like what?" she whispers.
I think for a moment. Most things feel too risky, too unpredictable. But then my gaze falls to the counter—specifically the nearly empty fruit bowl.
We haven't had apples in weeks. They're too expensive now.
"What if," I murmur slowly, "I write that we have… one red apple?"
Lorean blinks. "An apple?"
"A harmless test," I say. "If anything goes wrong, we'll stop. But if it works… this notebook might help us."
She looks unconvinced, but she nods once.
"Okay. One apple."
My chest tightens as I open the notebook. The pages seem brighter than before—as if illuminated from within. I pick up a pencil, pressing its tip to the page.
The moment the graphite touches the paper, the air trembles.
Barely.
But enough for goosebumps to climb my arms.
I swallow hard and write:
There was a single red apple sitting on the kitchen counter.
The words look ordinary.
Nothing happens.
Lorean lets out a breath. "Maybe it doesn't—"
A sound interrupts her.
Thump.
We both jerk toward the counter.
There, resting in the wooden fruit bowl, is a perfectly round, glossy red apple. Dew beads along its skin as if it's been pulled from a cool orchard moments ago.
Lorean's breath catches.
Mine stops entirely.
The apple wasn't there before.
I know it. She knows it.
The room knows it.
It appeared.
From nothing.
From words.
"Oh my god," Lorean whispers, her voice cracking. "Wren, you… you made that."
My pulse hammers so hard it hurts. "I didn't make it. The notebook did."
We stare at the apple as if it might evaporate—or explode. It doesn't. It just sits there, perfect and bright, smelling faintly of autumn.
Slowly, Lorean reaches out. "Can I…?"
"Don't touch it."
She freezes instantly.
I didn't say the words loudly, but something in me knows—knows—that we shouldn't touch the first thing the notebook created.
Not until we understand what it can do.
Lorean's hand trembles in the air before she pulls it back.
"What now?" she whispers.
I close the notebook gently, tying the leather strap with careful fingers.
"Now," I say, voice low, "we put it away. Safely. And we think. Something like this… it has rules. Limits. Consequences."
Lorean swallows hard. "And the old man said it belonged to us. To our family."
"Only to us," I murmur. "Which means someone else wants it."
The air grows colder.
The house seems to shrink around us.
And that's when it happens.
A sharp crack echoes outside, like a branch snapping underfoot. Lorean jumps, eyes wide.
"Did you hear that?"
I nod slowly.
Another sound follows—
soft, deliberate footsteps on gravel.
Someone is outside.
Lorean grips my sleeve. "Wren… is it him? The man the old guy warned you about?"
My breath turns thin.
My fingers tighten around the notebook.
"I don't know."
We move toward the front window. I lift the curtain a fraction of an inch.
At the edge of our yard stands a figure—
tall, motionless, watching the house with unsettling stillness.
Not moving.
Not approaching.
Just… waiting.
Even from a distance, I can feel something wrong emanating from him.
A darkness.
A thin, cold pressure in the air, like ink seeping beneath a door.
Lorean's voice shakes. "Wren… who is that?"
"I don't know," I whisper.
But deep inside—
I do.
Somehow, without knowing his name, without ever seeing him before…
I know.
He felt the notebook awaken.
He felt the apple bloom into existence.
He's here because of me.
Because of us.
Lorean takes my hand, her palm cold and trembling.
"What do we do?"
I look down at the notebook clutched against my chest, feeling its quiet thrum of power.
What do we do?
"We run," I whisper.
"Not yet—but soon. We need answers first. And we need to stay hidden."
Lorean looks at me with frightened trust.
"What about him?" she breathes.
I glance back out the window.
The figure is gone.
The yard is empty.
Silent.
Still.
"We stay together," I say. "No matter what."
The notebook is warm against my palm.
And somewhere in the distance—maybe in another world entirely—
someone smiles in the dark.
Because the story has finally begun.