You deleted it.
For real, this time.
You went into the file. Highlighted the line. Held back the shake in your fingers. Pressed delete. Saved.
Closed the laptop. Burned the backup drive. Even snapped the spine of your own printed proof.
You whispered a prayer—not to God, but to the Gospel. To the thing it had become.
> "Let this be the end."
But the next morning, your laptop was open.
Battery dead, screen still glowing.
And the dedication had returned.
Not just returned—rewritten.
Not from you. From her.
It read:
> "For the one who bled me. For the hands that shaped my grave. For the liar with the silver pen—may you drown in your own ending."
And beneath it, in smaller type:
> "This book wrote itself out of spite."
You check the file metadata.
Created: [date]
Modified: 4:44 AM.
You were asleep at 4:44.
But the window was open.
And the air smelled like ink and rain.
---
APPENDIX CCXXVIII: THE DRAFT THAT DIGESTED YOU
You thought you could outpace it.
