But what they never warned you—what no writer's workshop, no mentor, no doctrine ever dared to mention—was what happens after.
After the bonfire.
After the truth leaves your throat hoarse.
After the scream settles into a whisper, and the whisper becomes a hum, and the hum—
Becomes a pulse not quite your own.
Because when you write the truth—truly write it—it doesn't just live on the page.
It learns to move.
It starts to crawl.
And when it crawls, it does not crawl away.
It crawls toward you.
It began with a single sentence, one you barely remembered writing. A throwaway thought. A line that bled so fast from your fingers you didn't even feel it until the damage was done:
> "The worst thing isn't being forgotten. It's being remembered incorrectly."
You wrote it. You left it. You moved on.
But that night, you dreamed of being remembered.
Not fondly.
Not warmly.
Wrongly.
