It started with a box.
A dumb, torn-up cardboard box tucked behind a pile of old jackets in the hallway closet—one of those forgotten spaces families used like a graveyard for stuff nobody wanted to throw away, but also couldn't explain why they kept.
August had gone in looking for duct tape.
He came out holding a piece of his past.
"…Oh."
The box was heavier than it looked. Inside: school notebooks, old drawings, glitter-covered birthday cards from when his handwriting looked like a squirrel had a panic attack, and at the very bottom—
A worn black sketchbook.
Thicker. Older. He recognized it instantly.
The one.
The Arthur one.
He sat down right there in the hallway, cross-legged on the tile like a kid again. The light above him buzzed faintly. The house creaked.
The cover was scratched up, but the sticker in the corner was still there—crooked, half-peeled. A sword. He'd stuck it there after watching some anime that made him cry back in sixth grade.
He opened the book.
There he was.
Arthur.
Drawn in heavier lines back then. More dramatic. Almost comical in how serious he looked. August laughed quietly under his breath.
"God, I was so dramatic," he whispered.
Arthur stood tall in the first few pages, sword out, eyes dark. There were captions too, like fake comic panels. One read:
"Mercy is a gift the dead can't return."
August stared at it.
Then snorted. "Bro."
He turned the page.
More panels. Arthur fighting shadow-things. Arthur falling. Arthur saving someone—August couldn't remember who, but they were drawn smaller, always behind him. Always looking up.
Then came a scene with just words.
Page after page.
No pictures. Just writing. Tiny handwriting, like he'd been in a rush.
It was Chapter 6.
He had forgotten he even wrote full chapters in here. He'd always thought it was just art. But no—here it was. A whole novel.
Arthur bleeding. Arthur arguing with someone. Arthur walking away.
And then a sentence underlined twice:
"He had no name before this. So I gave him mine."
August's hand hovered over the page.
He didn't remember writing that.
But it was his handwriting.
His style. His cadence. Everything.
He swallowed. The air felt tighter suddenly, like the hallway had grown smaller.
"I made you up," he said softly. "Why do you feel real?"
The sketchbook didn't answer.
But in the corner of the next page… a new note.
One he definitely didn't remember writing.
"Do you still remember why?"
August stared at it.
And for the first time in years, he didn't feel alone in his own head.
August sat on the floor until his legs went numb.
The hallway light flickered once, but he didn't notice.
He was too busy reading.
Chapter 1: Arthur wakes up in a field of ash. No memory, just scars. The sky is described as "the color of regret if regret had a heartbeat." August visibly cringed at that line.
"Okay, edgy poet phase, I see you."
But it was good. Too good for how young he'd been. The pacing. The voice. The pain. Arthur didn't sound like a made-up guy swinging a sword. He sounded like someone real trying not to fall apart.
Each chapter pulled him further in.
Chapter 2: Arthur saves a boy, but doesn't speak to him. Not even a thank you. Not even a name. Just leaves an apple beside the kid's hand and disappears.
August paused.
He remembered that.
Not writing it—feeling it. The decision. The exact motion of Arthur turning away, heavy-footed, sword dragging in the dirt. The silence.
Chapter 3: A conversation with someone named Kael. A strange man with one eye and a crooked grin who tells Arthur, "You don't even flinch anymore. That's not strength, that's rot."
August read the line three times.
He flipped to the margin and saw a note in different pen ink. Older.
"Do you agree?"
He didn't remember writing that either.
He turned the page.
More text. The scenes got rougher. Arthur killing something that begged. Arthur hesitating when a child called him "sir." Arthur alone again. Always alone.
August wiped at his face before realizing he'd started tearing up.
Why?
He hadn't felt this story in years. But now it felt like he'd written it yesterday. Or maybe not written at all. Maybe witnessed.
He looked up. The hallway was dim now. He must've been reading for hours. No sounds from the rest of the house—his mom must've gone to bed. Reece's door was cracked open, nightlight glowing.
He stayed seated, sketchbook in his lap, hands pressed flat against the pages.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he whispered:
"Arthur."
The lights dimmed—just a flicker.
His heart skipped.
He stood up quickly, shoved the sketchbook under his arm, and went straight to his room.
This was stupid. Coincidence. The lights were old. The memory was strong. That's all.
He sat on his bed, sketchbook closed tight.
And then, for some reason, he flipped back to the first page again.
There it was. Arthur in full.
And this time—he swore on everything—there was a new line underneath the drawing.
In faint, pencil-thin handwriting:
"You said you wouldn't forget me."
August dropped the book.
August didn't touch the sketchbook for a solid ten minutes.
It lay on his bed like a living thing. Closed. Still. Quiet.
He paced.
Then sat.
Then stood again, muttering to himself like that would make things normal.
"You're tired. That's it. Stress. Hormones. Too many sad novels and not enough sunlight. This isn't—this isn't a thing. It's not doing anything. You probably wrote that line yourself and forgot. Yeah. That makes sense."
Pause.
"…Right?"
The sketchbook didn't answer. Obviously.
But it didn't feel like paper anymore either.
It felt aware.
He sat down, palms against his knees, trying to breathe.
Okay. Let's go through it rationally:
• Lights flickered. Fine. Old wiring.
• Blank pages vanished. Memory problem. Sure.
• Arthur's expression felt different. Artistic projection. Normal.
• A new sentence appeared that he didn't remember writing.
…That one was harder to explain.
He picked it up again. Carefully. Like it might bite.
Opened the first page.
Arthur. Still there. Still staring. That same look—somewhere between warning and mourning.
And underneath it, still faint:
"You said you wouldn't forget me."
August traced the line with his finger.
He could feel it now. Pencil grooves. Not just imagined. Written.
By who?
Him?
Someone else?
His heart wouldn't calm down. He wasn't scared—not exactly. It wasn't like horror-movie scared. It was more like recognition. Like hearing a song you hadn't heard since childhood and suddenly remembering what it made you feel.
Arthur didn't scare him.
The idea that Arthur might be real… did.
Not in a monster way.
In a mirror way.
He turned a few more pages. Faster now. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. He stopped on Chapter 9.
There was a drawing across the bottom.
Arthur again—but kneeling this time, one hand to his chest like he was holding something invisible. His head bowed. Behind him, the outlines of buildings, crumbling. Above him, the sky: blank.
The caption said:
"I didn't want to be saved. I wanted to be remembered."
August felt something in his chest break open just a little.
He didn't cry.
But something ached.
That night, he put the sketchbook under his pillow. Not because he believed it would protect him. Not because he thought it would talk again.
But because it felt wrong to leave Arthur alone.