She knocked on his window.
Not his door. His window. At midnight.
Rion opened it in silence. Mira climbed in like she'd done it before. She hadn't.
She sat on the edge of his desk. Looked around the room, slow, like she was taking inventory of something that might disappear.
Then she said it:
"I don't think I'm real."
Rion didn't answer. He couldn't.
"I remember things that didn't happen," she continued. "Like... I remember you telling me your favorite color. But I also remember you saying you never had one."
"I didn't," Rion said.
"Exactly," she whispered. "But I still remember both."
She stood and walked to his notebook. Opened it without asking. Flipped past drawings, scribbled thoughts, the missing page.
Then she pointed.
"This one's about me, right?"
He looked.
A sentence near the bottom of the page read:
> Mira will knock on his window at midnight, and for the first time, speak without being told to.
He hadn't written it.
And neither had she.
They stared at the words in silence.
Then Mira laughed once—quiet and shaky.
"I think we're both overdue," she said, "to find the edge of this thing."
She looked at him again.
And this time, he saw it: her eyes didn't flicker like the others.
She wasn't waiting for the next line.
She was already past it.