The letter arrived without a return address, but she knew exactly who had sent it. She hadn’t seen his handwriting in ten years, yet there it was: sharp, slanted, impatient. Exactly as it had been the day he vanished. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the page. You didn’t finish it. That was all. The room seemed to tilt. She turned slowly toward the old desk in the corner, the one she hadn’t touched since that night. Dust clung to the wood like a warning. Inside the drawer, beneath yellowed drafts and broken pens, lay the manuscript. Their manuscript. The last line ended mid-sentence, just as it had when he disappeared. “I couldn’t,” she whispered. The ink shifted. Not metaphorically, literally. The words on the letter bled, curling into new shapes. You can now. A cold draft slipped through the room, though the windows were shut. The manuscript pages fluttered open on their own, blank spaces waiting. The pen rolled toward her hand. And somewhere, just behind her, she heard breathing, slow, expectant. She sat down. She began to write. The words came too easily. They weren’t hers. She left the light on, just in case someone - or something - was still reading.