A narrow bridge of floating paper extended before them, suspended over a black abyss that whispered forgotten phrases. The wind blew softly, carrying fragments of old dialogue—some familiar, some foreign. "It's like walking across someone's discarded thoughts," Meera whispered. Rana stepped carefully, the paper creaking under his boots. "This place wasn't meant to be seen." From the shadows behind them, a whisper rose. "Neither were you." A figure appeared—transparent, pale, and flickering like static. "I'm the Ghost of Revisions," it murmured. "I was the author's first creation—then discarded." Its eyes burned with resentment. "And now, I unwrite you."
The bridge trembled violently as more ghostly figures materialized, each wearing faces that shifted rapidly between known and forgotten characters. One lunged, its hands made of crossed-out paragraphs. Raj fought it off with a scream. "They're corrupted drafts!" Aarav yelled. "Abandoned versions of us!" Meera held the golden page high, but its light flickered. "It's losing power here," she muttered. "We're in a zone of rejection—nothing survives too long." Ravi gritted his teeth. "Then we move faster." They ran, chased by the howls of erased characters, each one desperate for a place in the narrative.
Suddenly, the bridge split into multiple paths, each leading to a different floating doorway. "Which one's real?" Raj gasped. Meera pointed at one shimmering slightly. "That one's still being written." Rana didn't hesitate. "Then that's our way out." But the Ghost of Revisions blocked the path, its voice rising like thunder. "You leave—my story ends forever." It extended its fingers, dripping ink. "Stay, and become part of my chapter." Aarav pulled out a vial of white fire—the last of their reality fuel. "Not today," he said, hurling it at the ghost. The explosion shredded the path into pieces.
They fell, tumbling through a tunnel of collapsing paragraphs and melting scenes. Each wall showed brief flashes—a child's drawing of a hero, a half-written love story, a poem about rebellion. "These are unrealized ideas," Meera said, awestruck. "Concepts never given form." They landed in a chamber filled with floating typewriters, all typing on their own, spitting out gibberish. "What is this place now?" Ravi asked. A deep voice answered from above. "This is the Mind of the Author." A massive face loomed overhead, half-human, half-word. "Welcome to the imagination's graveyard." Its breath distorted the air. "You are intrusions."
"We're not leaving until we understand everything," Raj shouted. The face sneered. "Understanding doesn't grant survival." With a single breath, the Author's Mind summoned a blizzard of concepts—blades made of metaphors, monsters composed of bad ideas, clouds that poured ink instead of rain. The golden page glowed faintly, shielding them for now. Meera held it tight. "We're inside what made the Writer… the thoughts that birthed him." Aarav stared at the face. "Then this is where the true rewrite starts." The Mind's voice rumbled. "Rewrite what? Yourself? You are nothing but annotations."
Meera stepped forward. "Then we'll become the story." She held the golden page over her head and shouted, "We reject your script!" The floating typewriters exploded in unison, sending pulses of white-hot narrative energy through the chamber. The Mind screamed, its form cracking. "You think you can survive without structure? Without control?" The golden page flared brighter. "We'll create our own!" Ravi yelled. A spiral staircase emerged from the light, leading upward. The page folded itself into a new shape—a key. "Next chapter," Meera said, pushing open a hidden door.
Behind the door was a white void with only one object: a single, blank book floating mid-air. The room was still. The noise, the screams, the storms—all gone. "Is this… the New Draft?" Aarav asked. "Looks like it," Rana said. Meera approached the book slowly. "Whatever we write here becomes reality," she whispered. Raj reached out. "Then let's begin again." But before his hand could touch it, a child appeared—young, wide-eyed, holding a pen that bled gold. "You shouldn't be here," the child said softly. "This story isn't yours yet."
Ravi kneeled to the child's eye level. "Then whose is it?" The child's expression darkened. "The one who comes next." Suddenly, the room shook. Ink dripped from the sky. The golden page crumbled in Meera's hand. "No," she gasped. "It's rejecting us." The child raised the pen. "You were meant to end. You forced yourselves beyond your narrative expiration. Now, you've broken the balance." The book opened on its own. Pages flipped wildly. "You've rewritten too much." The child pointed at them, pen gleaming. "Now the rewrite rewrites you." The wind roared—and the page turned.