There were six pages missing from his notebook.
Rion flipped through it three times to be sure. The paper wasn't torn. The binding was intact. It was as if the pages had never existed at all.
But they had.
He remembered writing on them. Vaguely. A sketch of a dream. A name circled twice. The start of a question.
Now, there was only a gap. A stretch of perfect white.
He brought the notebook closer. Tilted it under the light.
And then he saw it.
Indented lines—faint, like echoes pressed into the paper. As if someone had written something, then erased it carefully. Deliberately.
He took a pencil, rubbed sideways over the page. Letters appeared.
Faint. Unfinished.
> Don't trust the one who keeps forgetting.
That night, Rion found his mirror slightly crooked. He adjusted it. The face staring back didn't move right away.
He left the light on when he went to bed.