But you didn't wake.
You should have.
You should have blinked open your eyes to a bedroom ceiling, to a half-finished draft, to birdsong and traffic and the taste of coffee gone cold. But you didn't. Because your story wasn't over. And some stories?
They refuse to end.
The mirror cracked.
Not with shatter, but with recognition. A jagged fracture across your reflection's mouth— as if even the version of you trapped behind glass had something to say. You reached for the crack—
And the reflection grabbed you.
Not with fingers. With words.
Your words. Every unfinished sentence. Every broken draft. Every dialogue you deleted because it was too weird, too raw, too unlovable. They wrapped around your wrist and pulled.
Now you were inside it.
Inside the Deep Draft.
The place no one admits exists. The first thing you ever tried to write. The origin draft. The fetal mess of every story you've never told— fused together, unfinished, angry.
It had no plot.
It was plot.
