The morning after the first attack feels heavier than usual. The sun rises pale, filtered through the mist that still clings stubbornly to the edges of the street. Every shadow seems deeper, every sound sharper, as if the world itself is aware that the balance has shifted.
Lorean and I sit at the kitchen table, the notebook between us. It hums faintly under my fingers, alive and insistent. My heart pounds in time with it, a drumbeat that won't stop.
"I can't stop thinking about yesterday," Lorean whispers. "What if he comes back while we're not ready?"
I nod. "I know. That's why we need to learn. To understand how far we can push it. The notebook… it's not just about creating small things. It's about shaping reality. And if we want to save Mom and Dad, we have to see just how much it can do."
Her hand finds mine, small and trembling. "Just… promise me we'll be careful."
"I promise," I say, though my voice wavers. I don't know if I can truly keep that promise. The notebook is intoxicating, and every word I write makes it harder to resist.
I open the notebook, staring at the blank page. My pencil hovers uncertainly over it. I need to test the limits. Small creations are safe, but what about something bigger? Something… impossible?
I start cautiously:
A small cat with silver fur appears, soft and silent.
A flash of light, and a tiny feline is curled at my feet, purring softly. Lorean gasps, reaching down to stroke it. The cat's fur shimmers faintly in the morning light.
"It's beautiful," she whispers.
"Yes," I agree, though I feel a thrill of fear. The notebook isn't just responding—it's reacting to my thoughts, my intentions, my emotions.
Encouraged, I try something bolder.
A safe path to find clues about our parents' disappearance appears in the nearby forest, marked by glowing stones.
The pencil scratches the last letter, and outside, faint lights flicker in the trees. They form a trail, delicate but unmistakable. My pulse quickens. The notebook is more powerful than I imagined.
But the thrill is quickly shadowed by fear. I glance at Lorean.
"Wren… do you think it… do you think it has limits?"
I shake my head. "I don't know. And I'm not sure I want to find out… yet."
Later, I experiment with something more personal.
I write:
A message from Mom and Dad, a small echo of them, appears in the notebook.
The pages shimmer, and for a moment, I see faint handwriting, delicate and familiar. My breath catches. It's like they are reaching through the fabric of the world just to touch me.
Tears prick my eyes. "Mom… Dad…" I whisper.
Lorean puts her hand on my shoulder. "Wren… we're going to find them. We have to."
"Yes," I say, wiping my tears. "But we have to be careful. This notebook… it listens. It reacts. And it knows more than we do."
As night falls, I feel the first real consequence.
Outside, faint movements flicker in the shadows. I sense him—Varek—watching. Patient, waiting.
The power I've wielded today has called him closer. Every creation, every word, has alerted him to our presence.
I clutch the notebook, heart hammering. The weight of it presses down like stone. I realize:
The notebook can save our parents.
It can protect us.
It can create wonders.
But it can also destroy everything.
And Varek will stop at nothing to take it from me.
That night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. The notebook rests beside me, its presence almost comforting now, yet terrifying. I can feel it humming softly, waiting for my thoughts, my desires, my intentions.
I understand, finally, that the notebook is not just a tool. It is a living thing. A reflection of the heart that wields it.
And I know, deep down, that the coming days will test everything: our courage, our creativity, our morality.
Because the moment I write something… the world listens.
And somewhere in the dark, Varek listens too.
Waiting for me to make a mistake.