You think this is the first time this story’s been told?
Strange… maybe you were in it too, once. Maybe you forgot.
But I see pieces now — less blurry. They come sharper at the edges. Like dreams that stopped asking permission to return.
People say I write like I already know how it ends.
I don’t. Not really. I just remember the way forward. That’s different.
I rewrite. A lot.
Some say you should wait for readers to speak before you change things.
But... do we really need permission to improve what we already know isn’t finished?
Stories grow from memory, not applause.
So I keep writing.
And remembering.
Even if no one’s watching.
The thread’s getting warmer. Can you feel it too?
