The city pulsed with an unnatural stillness. It looked real—cars passed, people walked, lights flickered—but something felt wrong. "It's too perfect," Meera whispered. Ravi scanned the streets, unease settling deep in his gut. "This isn't our world." Rana stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "It's a copy." Raj swallowed hard. "A rewritten version of reality." Aarav exhaled shakily. "Then where's the real one?" Meera gripped the glowing page. "Maybe we're in the draft—an unfinished rewrite." The thought sent chills through them. If this wasn't reality, then what would happen if the writer decided to erase it?
The golden thread was gone, leaving them stranded in this unfamiliar city. "We need to find something that doesn't belong," Ravi said. "A crack in the rewrite." Meera nodded. "Anything that proves this world is incomplete." They walked cautiously, searching for inconsistencies. The city stretched endlessly, identical streets looping back on themselves. "It's a maze," Raj muttered. "A prison disguised as a world." Then Rana stopped. "Look at that." He pointed to a building—a bookstore. It looked exactly like the one they had left. "This could be it," Aarav said. "The original piece of our world bleeding through."
They entered the bookstore, the bell above the door ringing. The air inside was thick, oppressive. The shelves were filled with books, but they were all blank. "No titles," Meera whispered, running her fingers over the spines. "No stories." Raj picked one up and flipped through it. Every page was empty. "This place isn't finished." Then a voice echoed from the back. "You shouldn't be here." They spun around. A man stood in the shadows, his face blurred like an unfinished sketch. "You're not part of this story." His voice was hollow, distorted. "Leave before you're erased."
"Who are you?" Ravi demanded. The figure tilted its head. "A leftover. A mistake. Like you." The temperature dropped. "This world doesn't need errors." The man took a step forward, and the bookstore trembled. "Go back to your pages." Meera tightened her grip on the glowing page. "We don't belong here. This isn't our world." The figure let out a low, eerie chuckle. "No. But you were meant to forget that." The shadows stretched, curling around them. "Let me help you." The walls rippled like ink on paper. "Erase yourselves willingly. It's easier that way."
Rana stepped forward. "We're not going anywhere." The air around the figure distorted. "Then I will make you forget." The room twisted violently, shelves bending and warping. "Hold onto something real!" Meera shouted. The glowing page pulsed, pushing back the distortion. "Ravi, focus!" He clenched his fists. "We remember who we are!" The man flickered. "No. You are just words waiting to be rewritten." The walls cracked. The bookstore began to collapse. "RUN!" Raj shouted. They bolted for the exit, the world around them unraveling. But as they burst through the doors, the city had changed again.
The sky was no longer blue—it was white, blank like an unwritten page. Buildings faded at the edges, dissolving into nothingness. "We're running out of time," Aarav said. "The rewrite is almost complete." A soft, eerie voice whispered through the air. "You will forget." The ground beneath them flickered. "No!" Meera clutched the page to her chest. "We hold on! We fight!" The city trembled as if something—someone—was rewriting it in real-time. "Who's doing this?" Raj whispered. Then, they saw him. A figure standing on the rooftop of a nearby building. Watching. Holding a pen.
"It's him," Ravi breathed. "The writer." The figure looked down at them, expression unreadable. "You're not supposed to be here," he said. His voice was calm, but it carried weight. "This world isn't yours anymore." Rana clenched his fists. "Then give it back." The writer tilted his head. "You don't understand. It was never yours to begin with." The city flickered again. They felt it—memories slipping, their existence thinning. "No!" Meera gritted her teeth. "We won't be erased!" The writer sighed, lifting the pen. "You already have been." He pressed it to the air, and the world shattered.
Everything turned white. Empty. Silent. Then, a heartbeat. A pulse of golden light. The page in Meera's hands burned brightly, resisting the rewrite. "Not yet," Ravi whispered. He grabbed Raj's arm. "We hold on." Rana's voice was steady. "We make our own story." The golden light flared, pushing against the white void. "No more erasing," Meera said. "No more forgetting." The writer hesitated. "You can't change what's already written." Ravi's eyes burned with determination. "Then we'll write something new." The world trembled. And for the first time, the rewrite hesitated. The fight for reality had begun.