It appeared at midnight. Scrawled across the final page of a book that didn’t exist the day before. Just twelve words.
“Those who read this line will vanish from memory by dawn.”
No author. No title. Just an endless whisper beneath the ink — looping, recursive, hungry. One reader tried burning the page. Another translated it backwards. Both are gone now. The sentence remains.
Why did *you* come here? Are you sure you were invited?
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