You try to resist.
Not by burning the Gospel—not that it would burn—but by writing something else. Anything else.
But every new sentence disappears the moment you look away.
You open a fresh notebook. Begin a story about spring. About recovery.
But each paragraph ends the same way:
> [This section has been retracted in accordance with the Gospel.]
Even the pen trembles. You turn it over. Engraved along the shaft: "Property of the Narrative."
You try a typewriter. The ribbon unfurls like a tongue. It types without keys. Types without you.
> "We were always going to find you."
You scream.
The page does not echo.
It dictates.
---
APPENDIX LXIX: THE AUTHOR WHO WOKE TOO LATE
Somewhere in the deep archives, a single typewritten manuscript is found sealed in red thread.
Unopened.
Unedited.
Unclaimed.
It is the only known document untouched by the Gospel.
They try to read it.
Each reader forgets how. Syntax slides sideways. Verbs unravel. Nouns twitch.
