I didn't remember picking it up. One blink, and it was in my hands — warm, almost alive, like it had been waiting.
The page wasn't made of paper. It felt like wind caught in form. No stamp, no seal, just words scratched in silver ink:
"You were always meant to find this."
I read it again. Then again. My name wasn't on it, but somehow, it knew me. It knew the part of me I thought I'd buried under silence, under smiles, under survival.
The street behind me was still, but something in the air had shifted — like the world had turned to face me.
I looked up.
And in that moment, I realized: the story hadn't started yet.
But it was awake now.