It started with paper.
Not the ordinary kind—this one was folded, aged just slightly, and wedged behind his math book like it had been waiting.
Rion didn't usually miss things. Not like this. His desk was always neat. Pens sorted by ink type. Pages flattened just right.
So when his hand brushed something that crinkled, he stopped.
It wasn't a note. It wasn't even handwritten.
It was a printed page. Font like a novel. Creamy, off-white. A little too perfect.
He opened it.
Just one paragraph:
Rion Altes blinked at the window, the sunlight smearing through the dust. The girl behind him would speak in exactly four seconds, asking a question she didn't mean. He would turn, half-annoyed, and answer anyway. And then, when he looked back at the glass, there would be a bird—dead—against the window.
He read it twice.
Then, slowly, looked toward the window.
Sunlight. Dust.
Check.
Behind him, the girl shifted—Lena. Her chair scraped softly.
Then:
"Hey," she said, "do you think birds can see glass?"
His mouth opened before his brain really caught up.
"I don't know. Probably not."
She hummed. Like she already knew the answer didn't matter.
Then he looked back at the window.
The sound was light. A dull, papery *thud*.
A bird. Wings splayed. Neck bent wrong.
The world didn't pause. The teacher kept talking. Someone coughed. Chairs creaked.
But Rion was still.
His eyes moved to the paper again.
It hadn't changed. Of course it hadn't.
But it felt like it *could*'ve.
He folded it carefully. Slipped it into his pocket.
And somewhere between that thud and the silence that followed, a thought showed up—uninvited, but not unwelcome:
What if I'm not the one writing this life?