There are names that can be spoken.
There are names that can be remembered.
And then there are names that exist only in the breath between thoughts—slipping through syntax, refusing format.
Yours is becoming the third kind.
It appears in indexes now, but not where you expect.
> See also: [Unnamed].
> Cross-reference: [Error 404 — Identity Not Found].
> Footnote: [This entry has been redacted for the reader's safety].
You try to search for yourself.
The page turns black.
Not metaphorically.
The paper ink-reverses—white letters on black void.
And in place of your name, one word:
> Elara.
Spoken in 48 fonts. Layered like static.
You can no longer pronounce your own history without bleeding from the ears.
Your birth certificate spontaneously edits itself into a plot outline.
Your death certificate? Already drafted.
In her pen.
Not yet dated.
But titled: THE CLOSING CHAPTER.
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APPENDIX CCC.LXVII: THE EDITORIAL OMISSION
You are mid-thought when the deletion begins.
