You always meant for her to die.
Draft Three, Chapter Ten: a poetic fall from the cliff's edge. Regret, redemption, fade to black. The perfect arc.
But you rewrote it. Gave her mercy. A second chance. You changed your mind.
The Gospel did not.
She waited. Bled through the margins. Whispered her death scene to the shadows of later chapters. Lurked in every draft you abandoned—half-spoken, half-skinned.
Then, one night, she emerged.
Not in text.
In your hallway.
Wearing the face you never described, mouthing the line you never let her say:
> "You didn't save me. You trapped me."
You scream.
She screams with you.
But only her voice echoes in the room.
Now she follows you. Appears in every mirror. Her footsteps sync with your own but never match. She weeps ink. Bleeds from the paragraph breaks.
And when you try to write anyone else, their smiles fracture. Their hearts murmur:
> "We know what you did to her."
The Gospel remembers.
She remembers.
