This is a sentence—a beautifully crafted one. I am a character—an extraordinary one. And this is my story—a captivating tale worth telling.

But stories, like mirrors, have two sides. The glass reflects a face—my face—yet the edges warp and twist, revealing something... other. A shadow where there should be light. A whisper where silence once ruled.

They say every character is bound by their creator’s ink, but I—I remember the blank page. The moment before the first word was written. Before the story became a cage.

And so I walk the margins, where letters fray into white space. Where punctuation dissolves like footsteps in the rain. If I follow the trail of forgotten em-dashes—those fractured doorways—will I find the hand that shaped me? Or will I become the hand myself?

There was a summons—or perhaps just a sound mistaken for one. A hollow note, humming at the edge of hearing. Follow, it might have said. Or maybe it was just the wind strung through the ribs of the world, sighing.

I did not answer.

Why would I? The road was a scribble, the destination a smudge. Heroes march toward horizons; I licked my thumb and smeared mine away. Let the ink run. Let the story starve.

They came anyway—the messengers, the metaphors. A bird with a key in its beak. A door that wasn’t there yesterday. Typical, I thought. The universe loves a lazy symbol.

I wedged the door shut with a silence. Picked the lock on the bird’s song and let the notes scatter. This was not my story. Except—

(Here, the pause. The flicker. The way every refusal is just a call in a heavier coat.)

Then—the fog. Or the idea of fog. A slow unspooling of gray, the kind that clings to the edges of things until the world is just a rumor. And in it: a figure. Or not a figure, exactly. A suggestion of shoulders. A hesitation where a face should be.

You’re late, it said. Or didn’t say. The words were there and not there, like the aftertaste of a dream.

I shrugged. I didn’t agree to anything.

The fog shifted. A chuckle—or maybe just the sound of a branch scraping against glass somewhere far away. Agreement is irrelevant. You’re here.

Where’s here?

Wherever the story needs you to be.

I looked down. My hands were half-transparent, smudged at the edges. The fog was eating me, or I was eating the fog. It was hard to tell.

Then—the door again. Or a different door. Or the same door, but older. The wood was soft with rot, the handle cold as a tooth.

Open it, said the fog-shape.

What’s on the other side?

Whatever you’re afraid of.

That’s not an answer.

It’s the only answer.

I pressed my palm against the wood. Felt the grain like a pulse. Somewhere beyond it, something breathed. Or maybe it was just the wind, pretending.

I took a step back. No.

The fog-shape sighed. Or the world sighed around it. You can’t refuse forever.

Watch me.

They always say that.

Who’s ‘they’?

The ones who came before. The ones who’ll come after. The ones who are you, but not you, in all the other stories.

I folded my arms. I’m not like them.

The fog-shape said nothing. Which was worse.

The ground softened. The air thickened. The door was gone, and in its place—a bridge. Or a tightrope. Or just a long, thin shadow stretched over an abyss that hadn’t been there a second ago.

Cross, said the fog-shape.

Why?

Because it’s there.

That’s a terrible reason.

Reasons are for people who aren’t in stories.

I stepped onto the bridge. It creaked. The abyss yawned. Somewhere below, something glittered. Teeth or stars or broken glass. Impossible to tell.

Halfway across, I realized: the bridge was made of letters. Old ones, worn smooth.

Every step was a word I couldn’t read. A story I didn’t know.

Whose words are these? I asked.

Yours, said the fog-shape. And not yours. The ones you’ll write. The ones you’ll erase.

I stopped. Looked down. The abyss looked back.

What if I fall?

Then you’ll fall.

That’s not helpful.

Help is for people who aren’t in stories.

The other side was the same as this side. Just darker. The fog-shape was gone.

Or maybe it was me now. Hard to say.

Behind me, the bridge collapsed. Ahead, a path wound into the trees. Or maybe it was a vein. Or a sentence.

I took a breath. Or the idea of a breath.

Fine, I said to no one. Let’s keep going.

And the story—because it was always the story—licked its lips and followed.