They say the dead can't write.
That's not entirely true.
They can.
They just need a hand.
And one evening—during a blackout that never made the news—your hand isn't yours anymore.
You watch it move across your desk, fingers curled like a marionette's, scrawling in a dialect of pain you've never seen before but somehow know how to read.
Each line blooms on the page like bruises on old fruit.
The paper weeps.
And you remember: this is how it began for her. The one from the forums. The one who said she dreamed herself into a footnote and woke up with her spine indexed.
You didn't believe her.
She doesn't post anymore.
But sometimes her profile appears in the chat.
Typing...
Then nothing.
Just a timestamp:
> Last seen: [00:00:00]
Every night.
Same time.
Same silence.
As if midnight itself were reading, too.
---
Somewhere, a publisher receives an unsolicited manuscript.
No address. No metadata.
Just the title:
"Let Me Out."
He opens it.
