The next night, Miyu couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that cloaked figure in her drawing. It wasn't just eerie — it was wrong, like something had crawled out of her thoughts and onto the page, leaving a trace of itself behind.
By midnight, she was up again, sitting cross-legged on the floor in her oversized hoodie, sketchbook laid out like a ritual offering. The rest of the room was dark, save for the soft, golden glow of her desk lamp.
She stared at the forest scene.
It hadn't changed.
But the feeling… it had. Heavier. As if the picture had grown its own heartbeat.
"I didn't draw this," she murmured. "I didn't draw you."
She flipped back through the pages—castles, ancient blades, sacred artifacts, a few half-formed creatures. All things she'd sketched in the past month, things that had come to her without warning. She'd thought she was just being imaginative.
But now?
Something was guiding her hand. She was sure of it.
Her fingers hovered over the forest scene. Slowly, cautiously, she touched the surface.
It rippled.
Like water.
She yanked her hand back with a gasp, stumbling to her feet. Her sketchbook glowed faintly now — not a reflection, not imagination. It pulsed with a silver-blue light like moonlight trapped on a page.
And then she heard it.
A howl.
Faint, distant, as if carried through a long tunnel. But clear.
She turned in circles, breath held. Her bedroom window showed nothing but still trees and empty streets outside.
The sound had come from the book.
She turned back to it, both terrified and transfixed.
And for the first time, the thought formed with complete clarity:
This wasn't just a drawing.
It was a door.
And something was on the other side.
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