The letter arrived without a return address, but she knew exactly who had sent it. Because she hadn’t mailed it yet. Mara stared at the envelope on her desk, her own handwriting staring back at her. The timestamp on her laptop read 2:14 a.m. She hadn’t slept. Hadn’t written, either. At least—not consciously. The envelope was sealed. She opened it slowly. Inside was a printed page. Her document formatting. Her font. Her margins. The title at the top: Draft 17 Her stomach dropped. She had only written sixteen drafts. She skimmed the text. It was her story. The same premise. The same characters. But… refined. Sharper. And darker. The ending was different. Her version ended with ambiguity. This one didn’t. Her protagonist opened the door. And something stepped through. Mara pushed her chair back. “No,” she said quietly. “No, I’m not doing this.” Her laptop chimed. A new file appeared. Draft 18 Her fingers hovered over the trackpad. She didn’t open it. Didn’t need to. Because the letter in her hand began to change. You stopped improving. Her jaw tightened. “I stopped because it was done.” The screen flickered. The cursor blinked. Then— Text began to appear. Line by line. She watched, frozen. It was continuing the story. Not rewriting. Continuing. As if Draft 17 had already happened. As if her version didn’t matter. Her chest tightened. “This isn’t mine,” she said. The letter grew warm. It will be. Her hands moved before she could stop them. Typing. Editing. Adjusting sentences that weren’t hers. The work felt natural. Too natural. Better. Cleaner. Right. The story sharpened into something precise and unsettling. When she finally stopped, the file saved itself. Draft 19 Mara leaned back, breathing hard. The room felt… occupied. Not crowded. Just… observed. She looked at the screen. At the blinking cursor. Waiting. Patient. Expectant. She didn’t close the file. Didn’t turn off the laptop. Didn’t even leave the room. She left the light on, just in case someone - or something - was still reading.