I get lost in the pages— not one, not two, but three… and then another, and another, until the light fades without asking permission. The house goes still. No voices. No footsteps. Just the quiet scrape of pages turning— proof that time is still moving, even if I am not. And I wonder— does the theme even matter once the story begins to unfold? When reality loosens its grip and you slip into the space between the lines, between the words, between who you are and who you’re a
