She had lived in the house for twenty years, but last night, she discovered a door she had never seen before.
It shouldn’t have been there.
The wood was older than the house itself, its surface worn, its handle cold to the touch. A relic from a time she didn’t remember.
She hesitated, then pushed it open. The door groaned—a sigh of something long-forgotten waking up.
Inside, the room smelled of dust and damp earth. In the dim light, she saw small figures curled up on beds of discarded paper and broken quills. Their faces were smudged with ink, their eyes hollow, their breaths shallow.
She shivered. “Who… are you?”
One of the girls sat up, her voice quiet but achingly familiar.
“We are the stories you left behind.”
The others stirred, their whispers like rustling pages.
“We are the ideas you ignored, the possibilities you abandoned, the words you were too busy to write.”
She felt her knees go weak.
The girl reached for her hand, her fingers ice-cold, yet pulsing with something alive.
“Will you leave us again?”
The door behind her creaked, as if waiting for her answer.
Sherry exhaled, looking up from the page. “That story… it felt real.”
Arin, sitting across from her, smiled knowingly. “Maybe because it is.”
“You mean we really do leave stories behind when we ignore them?”
“Haven’t you felt them?” Arin leaned closer. “The ideas tugging at your mind before sleep, the whispers of inspiration when you’re too busy to write them down? The abandoned stories don’t vanish, Sherry. They wait.”
She shivered, her fingers tightening around her notebook. “So… what happens if I don’t return to them?”
“The same thing that happens when you ignore any calling.” Arin’s voice softened. “They fade.”
She looked down at the story again, the words alive beneath her fingertips. “Not this time.”
You must be logged in to post a comment.