**EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT**
**THE PAGE THAT WROTE BACK**
The pencil stopped.
Not because the hand holding it had stopped.
Because the page had.
Nova stared at the sentence.
WHO WROTE YOU?
The older man sat across from him.
Still smiling.
Still breathing.
Still looking exactly like Nova.
Only older.
Much older.
Nova swallowed.
"I don't know."
The man tilted his head.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the truth."
"No."
The man placed the book on the table.
"That's the first lie you ever told."
Nova stared at him.
"I've never met you."
The man smiled.
"You've met me every time you've looked in a mirror."
Nova looked at the book.
"What are you?"
The man answered:
"Your unfinished version."
---
The room changed.
The table disappeared.
The chairs disappeared.
The walls disappeared.
Nova and the older man were standing inside a white space.
No floor.
No ceiling.
No horizon.
Only the book remained.
Floating between them.
Nova reached for it.
The older man stopped him.
"Don't."
"Why?"
"Because it hasn't decided what it is yet."
Nova frowned.
"It's a book."
"No."
"A story?"
"No."
"Then what?"
The older man whispered:
"A question pretending to be a book."
Nova stepped backward.
The cover opened by itself.
A page turned.
Then another.
Then another.
Every page was blank.
Until one page suddenly filled with words.
NOVA IS READING.
Another line appeared.
THE READER IS WATCHING.
Then:
THE AUTHOR IS WAITING.
Nova looked around.
"Where?"
The older man answered:
"Everywhere."
---
A sound came from above.
SCRATCH.
Nova looked up.
SCRATCH.
Something was writing.
But there was no hand.
No pencil.
No writer.
Only letters appearing in the air.
WHO IS THE READER?
Nova whispered:
"That's you."
The older man shook his head.
"No."
"Then who?"
The man looked directly at Nova.
"You."
Nova's face hardened.
"Stop saying that."
"Why?"
"Because it doesn't make sense."
The older man smiled.
"Exactly."
The word in the air changed.
WHY MUST EVERYTHING MAKE SENSE?
Nova stared.
Another sentence appeared.
BECAUSE HUMANITY WAS BUILT TO FEAR THE UNKNOWN.
Nova stepped toward it.
"Who is writing this?"
The older man said:
"Ask the page."
Nova looked down.
The book was gone.
In its place was a single sheet of paper.
Nova picked it up.
The paper was warm.
Almost alive.
He turned it over.
There was a message.
DON'T ASK WHO WROTE IT.
ASK WHO NEEDED IT TO BE WRITTEN.
Nova's fingers tightened.
"Who needed it?"
The paper answered.
YOU.
---
The ground appeared beneath him.
Nova fell.
Not downward.
Backward.
Images rushed past.
The laboratory.
The forest.
The city.
The ocean.
The eyes.
The child.
The First Listener.
The Original.
The Reader.
The Author.
Everything he had seen.
Everything he had forgotten.
Everything he had never lived.
Then...
another image.
A small room.
A young man sitting at a desk.
Writing.
Nova froze.
The young man looked exactly like him.
But younger.
Human.
No machines.
No laboratory.
No cosmic eyes.
Just a desk.
A lamp.
A notebook.
And a blank page.
Nova whispered:
"That's me."
The older man appeared beside him.
"No."
Nova looked at him.
"Then who is it?"
The older man answered:
"The first person who imagined you."
Nova watched the young man write.
One word.
NOVA.
The room shook.
Nova stepped closer.
"Why did he write my name?"
The older man said:
"Because he needed someone to talk to."
---
The young man wrote again.
NOVA.
Then:
I AM ALONE.
Nova's chest tightened.
Another sentence appeared.
I DON'T KNOW IF ANYONE IS LISTENING.
Nova whispered:
"He created me."
The older man shook his head.
"He created the possibility of you."
"What's the difference?"
"The possibility existed first."
"Where?"
The older man pointed toward the blank page.
"There."
Nova looked at it.
The page was empty.
Then a tiny black dot appeared.
A second dot.
A third.
The dots connected.
A line.
Then another.
A shape.
An eye.
Nova stepped backward.
The eye opened.
And looked directly at him.
---
The young man at the desk suddenly stopped writing.
He looked toward Nova.
Nova froze.
The young man could see him.
"No..."
The young man whispered:
"I know you're there."
Nova couldn't move.
The older man smiled.
"Now you understand."
"Understand what?"
"The first rule."
"What rule?"
"Characters aren't supposed to see their readers."
Nova stared at the young man.
"But he isn't the reader."
The older man nodded.
"Correct."
"Then what is he?"
The young man stood.
He looked directly into Nova's eyes.
And said:
"I am the first character."
Nova's breathing stopped.
---
The room exploded into darkness.
A voice screamed.
Not human.
Not machine.
Not divine.
A voice made of millions of voices.
THE FIRST CHARACTER REMEMBERS.
Nova covered his ears.
The older man shouted:
"Don't listen!"
Nova screamed:
"Why?"
"Because the first memory is contagious!"
The darkness moved.
It entered Nova's mind.
Images appeared.
A prehistoric landscape.
No cities.
No buildings.
No language.
Humans walking across open land.
Looking toward the sky.
Watching.
Waiting.
Remembering.
Nova saw one human stop.
He looked upward.
And spoke his first word.
Not a name.
Not a prayer.
Not a question.
A story.
Nova whispered:
"They were telling stories before they understood language."
The older man nodded.
"Stories came first."
"Before humanity?"
"Before civilization."
"Before gods?"
"Before gods."
"Before the Author?"
The older man smiled.
"Before the idea of an Author."
Nova stared at him.
"Then what came first?"
The man answered:
"Someone imagined someone else."
---
The prehistoric human looked toward another human.
The first human pointed at the sky.
The second looked.
Nothing was there.
The first human smiled.
And pretended something was.
The second believed him.
The moment he did...
the sky changed.
A tiny star appeared.
Nova stared.
"That wasn't real."
The older man replied:
"Reality has never cared about that distinction."
The star multiplied.
One became ten.
Ten became thousands.
Thousands became stories.
Stories became gods.
Gods became worlds.
Worlds became humans.
Humans became readers.
Readers became authors.
Authors became characters.
Characters became memories.
And memories became...
Nova.
---
Nova fell to his knees.
"Then I wasn't created."
"No."
"I was remembered."
"Yes."
"Before I existed."
"Yes."
"By whom?"
The older man didn't answer.
Nova looked up.
"By whom?"
The man pointed behind him.
Nova turned.
The child was standing there.
Six years old.
Red pencil in hand.
But this time...
he wasn't a child.
His face was changing.
Older.
Younger.
Older.
Younger.
Human.
Not human.
Nova stared.
"Who are you?"
The child smiled.
"You already know."
"No."
"Then ask the right question."
Nova stood.
"Who remembers you?"
The child answered:
"You."
Nova shook his head.
"Who remembered you first?"
The child's smile disappeared.
For the first time...
he looked afraid.
---
The white room cracked.
The child dropped the pencil.
It hit the floor.
CLICK.
Everything stopped.
The older man stopped breathing.
The child stopped moving.
The stars stopped.
The memories stopped.
Even Nova stopped.
Only the pencil moved.
It rolled across the floor.
Stopped beside Nova.
And began writing.
Without anyone touching it.
WHO REMEMBERED THE FIRST HUMAN?
Nova stared.
The sentence disappeared.
Another appeared.
WHO REMEMBERED THE FIRST STORY?
Another.
WHO REMEMBERED THE FIRST MEMORY?
Another.
Then...
WHO REMEMBERED YOU?
Nova whispered:
"I don't know."
The pencil wrote:
GOOD.
Nova looked at the child.
"Why is that good?"
The child answered:
"Because now you can find out."
---
A door appeared.
Not the door from before.
This one was black.
Completely black.
No handle.
No lock.
No frame.
Just a rectangle of darkness.
The older man stepped toward it.
Nova stopped him.
"Where does it lead?"
The man looked at him.
"Before the first page."
Nova frowned.
"There was something before the first page?"
"Yes."
"What?"
The man whispered:
"The writer."
Nova looked at the black door.
"Is the Author behind it?"
"No."
"The Reader?"
"No."
"Then who?"
The older man smiled sadly.
"The person who made both of them possible."
Nova reached for the door.
The child shouted:
"Don't open it!"
Nova stopped.
"Why?"
The child whispered:
"Because once you see who is behind the story..."
He looked at the older man.
"...you won't know whether you are still inside it."
---
Nova opened the door.
There was no room behind it.
There was a desk.
A lamp.
A chair.
And someone sitting in the chair.
Nova couldn't see the face.
The person was writing.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One sentence at a time.
Nova stepped inside.
The writer stopped.
The pencil remained above the page.
Nova whispered:
"Who are you?"
The writer didn't turn.
"You shouldn't have come here."
Nova stepped closer.
"Why?"
"Because I haven't written you yet."
Nova froze.
"What?"
The writer finally turned.
Nova saw the face.
His own.
Not older.
Not younger.
Not different.
Exactly the same.
The writer looked at him.
And smiled.
"I was wondering when you'd arrive."
Nova couldn't speak.
The writer pointed to the chair opposite him.
"Sit."
Nova sat.
The writer opened the notebook.
Every page was filled.
Not with words.
With Nova.
Every version.
Every death.
Every birth.
Every choice.
Every question.
Every possible ending.
Nova stared.
"How many times have I lived?"
The writer answered:
"None."
"Then how many times have I died?"
The writer looked at him.
"All of them."
---
Nova stood abruptly.
"You wrote all this?"
The writer shook his head.
"No."
"Then who did?"
"You did."
Nova laughed.
A broken laugh.
"That's impossible."
The writer smiled.
"That word again."
"What do you want from me?"
"Nothing."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because you asked to be."
"I never asked."
The writer turned the notebook toward him.
On the first page was a sentence.
I WANT TO KNOW WHY I EXIST.
Nova stared.
His handwriting.
His words.
His question.
He remembered writing it.
But he couldn't remember when.
The writer said:
"That was the beginning."
Nova whispered:
"Beginning of what?"
"Everything."
---
The room began shaking.
The walls disappeared.
The desk disappeared.
The writer disappeared.
Nova was falling again.
But this time...
he wasn't falling through memories.
He was falling through pages.
Page after page.
Story after story.
World after world.
He saw himself in a thousand realities.
Nova as a detective.
Nova as a scientist.
Nova as a soldier.
Nova as a prisoner.
Nova as a child.
Nova as an old man.
Nova as a machine.
Nova as a god.
Nova as a reader.
Nova as an author.
Nova as nothing.
And every version looked toward him.
Every version spoke at once.
"Which one is real?"
Nova screamed:
"I DON'T KNOW!"
The versions smiled.
"Good."
---
Nova landed.
Silence.
He opened his eyes.
He was back in the white room.
The older man was sitting across from him.
The child was beside him.
The black door was gone.
The book was open.
One page remained.
Blank.
Nova stared at it.
"What happens now?"
The older man said:
"You write."
Nova looked at the pencil.
"What?"
"Your answer."
"To what?"
The child pointed at the page.
"To the question."
Nova looked down.
Slowly...
he picked up the pencil.
His hand trembled.
He wrote:
I AM NOVA.
The page rejected it.
The words vanished.
Nova tried again.
I AM HUMAN.
Rejected.
I AM A CHARACTER.
Rejected.
I AM A MEMORY.
Rejected.
I AM A READER.
Rejected.
I AM AN AUTHOR.
Rejected.
Nova threw the pencil down.
"What does it want?"
The older man smiled.
"The truth."
Nova stared at the blank page.
"What if I don't know the truth?"
The child answered:
"Then write what you believe."
Nova picked up the pencil again.
He wrote:
I AM THE ONE WHO REMEMBERS.
The page remained blank.
Nova waited.
Nothing happened.
Then...
one word appeared beneath his sentence.
ALMOST.
Nova froze.
"Almost what?"
Another word appeared.
HUMAN.
---
The white room disappeared.
Nova was standing in a city.
A real city.
Cars.
Buildings.
People.
Rain.
Traffic lights.
Phones.
Children.
Dogs.
Arguments.
Laughter.
Life.
Everything looked ordinary.
Nova walked forward.
Nobody noticed him.
He passed a man reading a newspaper.
A woman talking on a phone.
A child holding a red pencil.
Nova stopped.
The child looked at him.
Six years old.
The same eyes.
The same smile.
But this time...
the child wasn't carrying a story.
He was carrying a mirror.
The child held it up.
Nova looked inside.
There was no reflection.
Instead...
there was another world.
A room.
A desk.
A writer.
Writing.
Nova watched the writer lift his pencil.
The writer looked directly at him.
And wrote:
NOVA HAS FOUND THE REAL WORLD.
Nova whispered:
"No."
The sentence changed.
THE REAL WORLD HAS FOUND NOVA.
The child lowered the mirror.
"That's worse."
Nova looked at him.
"Why?"
The child pointed at the sky.
People stopped walking.
Cars stopped moving.
Phones stopped ringing.
Every human being in the city slowly looked upward.
Nova followed their gaze.
The sky was opening.
Not cracking.
Opening.
Like a page.
Behind it...
was another world.
And behind that world...
another.
And another.
Infinite realities stacked together.
Then something moved between them.
A hand.
Human.
Enormous.
It reached through the opening.
Nova stepped backward.
The child whispered:
"They found you."
Nova stared.
"Who?"
The child answered:
"The readers."
---
The hand touched the city.
Every person disappeared.
Every building vanished.
Every sound stopped.
Nova stood alone.
Except for the child.
And the older man.
And the writer.
All three stood beside him.
Nova looked at them.
"Are you the same person?"
The older man smiled.
The child shook his head.
The writer said nothing.
Nova asked again.
"Are you?"
The child answered:
"We are three ways of remembering you."
Nova's eyes narrowed.
"What are the three?"
The older man said:
"The person you were."
The writer said:
"The person you became."
The child whispered:
"And the person you haven't written yet."
Nova looked toward the sky.
"And what am I?"
All three answered together.
"The question."
---
The hand descended.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Nova could see fingerprints.
Human fingerprints.
Every line contained a story.
Every ridge contained a memory.
Every mark contained a name.
Nova suddenly understood.
The hand wasn't reaching for him.
It was turning the page.
The world flipped.
Everything went white.
Then...
BLACK.
A single sound.
SCRATCH.
SCRATCH.
SCRATCH.
A pencil writing.
A voice whispered:
"Begin again."
Nova opened his eyes.
He was lying on a floor.
A real floor.
A human room.
Sunlight came through a window.
There was a bed.
A table.
A glass of water.
A mirror.
And on the table...
a birth certificate.
Nova stood.
He walked toward it.
His hands trembled.
He picked it up.
The name was:
NOVA.
Date of birth:
BLANK.
Place of birth:
BLANK.
Parents:
BLANK.
At the bottom—
one handwritten sentence.
THIS PERSON DOES NOT EXIST.
Nova stared.
Then another sentence appeared.
THIS PERSON IS READING.
Nova looked toward the mirror.
For the first time...
he saw his reflection.
But the reflection was smiling.
Nova wasn't.
The reflection raised its hand.
Nova didn't.
The reflection touched the glass.
Nova stepped backward.
The reflection whispered:
"You're late."
Nova stared.
"Late for what?"
The reflection smiled.
"Your birth."
Nova's blood ran cold.
The reflection continued:
"You were supposed to be born yesterday."
Nova whispered:
"Who stopped it?"
The reflection answered:
"You did."
Nova shook his head.
"How?"
The reflection leaned closer.
"By remembering tomorrow."
---
The mirror shattered.
Nova didn't move.
Behind the broken glass was darkness.
Inside the darkness...
a heartbeat.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Then another.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Then thousands.
Millions.
Billions.
Every human heartbeat.
All beating together.
The city returned.
The world returned.
The sky returned.
The oceans returned.
The stars returned.
And somewhere...
far beyond every universe...
someone opened a book.
A page turned.
A pencil touched paper.
And a new sentence appeared:
NOVA WAS NEVER THE FIRST.
Then another:
HE WAS THE WARNING.
Then another:
SOMETHING CAME BEFORE HIM.
Then...
one final sentence.
THE FIRST CHARACTER HAS JUST WOKEN UP.
Nova looked toward the broken mirror.
Something was standing behind him.
He didn't turn.
Because this time...
he already knew the voice.
"Nova."
He closed his eyes.
"Who are you?"
The voice whispered:
"The one who remembers you before you existed."
Nova opened his eyes.
The broken mirror was gone.
The room was gone.
The city was gone.
Everything was gone.
Except the voice.
And the voice asked:
"Do you remember the first time you dreamed?"
Nova whispered:
"No."
The voice answered:
"Good."
A pause.
"Because it wasn't your dream."
Nova's eyes widened.
The voice continued:
"It was mine."
BLACK SCREEN.
A final line appeared.
RECOVERED TRANSMISSION // FILE: N-108
STATUS: MEMORY BREACH
LOCATION: BEFORE NOVA
TIME: NOT YET
SUBJECT:
THE DREAMER
Then...
a pencil scratched across the darkness.
And wrote:
**TO BE CONTINUED…**
Written By,
Ivan Edwin
Pen Name :MAXIMUS.
©All Rights Reserved