Maya stared at her reflection, the bathroom mirror fogged from the shower, her skin flushed from heat—but her mind, cold. Frozen in a loop of questions she had no answers to.
Who was watching her?
Why now?
Why did it feel like something… someone… from before?
She touched the scar on her collarbone. Faint. Almost invisible now. But real.
A reminder of the day silence became her only weapon. And the day she realized not all wounds bleed.
That night, she couldn't sleep. Each creak in the hallway felt like breath on her neck. Every gust of wind tapping the window felt like fingers reaching in.
So she did something she hadn't done in months.
She opened the old notebook hidden beneath her bed.
The one with dried tears between the pages. And a story she never finished writing—because it was hers.
She began again.
"There was a girl who survived without applause. Who smiled in rooms where she was once broken. Who walked alone, not because she wanted to… but because trusting again felt like placing her heart on a trigger."
The words spilled out, raw and desperate. But freeing.
Then she heard it.
A knock.
Soft. Three times.
From the front door.
She froze.
Again—three knocks. Deliberate. Measured.
Maya approached slowly, barefoot, heart hammering.
She looked through the peephole.
No one.
Just a small box on the mat.
She opened the door. The wind rushed past her like a whisper. No footsteps. No shadow.
Inside the box was a single black feather… and a note that read:
"You forgot how to fly, little raven. I'm here to remind you."
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