The Book She Never Wrote

Elise

The name lingered in my thoughts like perfume in an old coat — faint, familiar, hard to explain. I had never written a character like Elise, and Amira had never mentioned her. But she was there now, woven into the pages like she'd always belonged.

That night, I dreamt of her.

She stood in the corner of my room, barefoot on the cold floor, her shadow cast longer than her body. She didn’t speak. Just stared. But somehow, I knew her name.

“Elise,” I whispered.

Her lips curved slightly, a sad smile that held centuries. Then she turned and vanished through the wall.

I woke up gasping.

I opened Amira’s journal again, searching for answers. A scribble I hadn't seen before was inked into the margin:

“Elise was the part of me that kept surviving when I couldn’t.”

What did that mean? A fictional version of herself? A coping mechanism? Or something darker?

I emailed Amira that morning, asking if she remembered writing anything about Elise.

She replied three hours later:

> “You found her?”

That was it. No explanation. Just a question. And somehow, it chilled me more than any ghost could.

That night, I opened a fresh page and began to write. Not about Amira. Not even about me.

I wrote Elise.

And the words came faster than I could type.

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