The wax crumbled like old blood. The paper unfolded itself, smooth and silent. Inside was a comic.
Black cover. Matte. No title. No issue number. No publisher's stamp.
Just an image: a figure standing in front of a bookstore.
The same bookstore I was in.
The same pose I was holding.
Same clothes. Same backpack. Same hoodie string caught in the zipper.
It was me.
I stared. My breath caught in my throat.
I opened the cover.
Page One: a boy walking down an alley.
Page Two: the boy looking up at a door.
Page Three: the boy opening the door, his face pale.
Page Four: the boy stepping inside, frozen by something unseen.
Each panel perfectly drawn. No speech bubbles. Just sequential silence.
I turned the page.
Page Five: the boy unwrapping a package.
Page Six: the boy holding a comic… of himself.
Page Seven: the boy reading Page Seven.
That's when I stopped breathing.
I flipped ahead.
The pages were blank.
White. Smooth. Empty.
Then, slowly, lines began to appear. Ink bleeding up from beneath the page like it was alive.
The next image was me—standing still.
Then me, turning my head.
Then me, eyes widening.
Then me… looking at a figure behind me.
Black.
Faceless.
Tall.
Standing right where I stood.
I turned.
Nothing.
But the page kept drawing.
The figure was closer now.
My legs moved before my brain did. I dropped the comic, stumbling backward into a rack of plastic-wrapped manga.
Something hissed behind me. Or maybe it was the sound of the dust spinning faster.
I didn't look back.
I ran.
Out the door. Into the daylight.
I didn't stop running until I reached the next block.
When I turned around...
The alley was gone.
Just a flat brick wall.
Like the shop had never existed