Anaya was no ordinary girl—she was a writer of dreams. But not in the way most authors are. Her ideas didn’t come during the day. They only arrived in her sleep—brilliant, vivid, cinematic dreams that left her breathless by morning.
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Every night, she’d dream of a strange world: ancient ruins whispering in forgotten tongues, a boy made of starlight, a library with living books. It felt like a story destined to be told. But every time Anaya woke up, the dream scattered like mist. She would rush to her desk, writing fragments—lines, names, places—trying to piece it together.
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Pages piled up. None connected. None made sense. But she couldn’t stop.
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Months passed. The dreams grew stronger, more emotional. She began seeing parts of the dream world in her real life—faces from her sleep staring back in reflections, voices echoing in the wind, ink on the page changing overnight. It was as if the story she never finished was writing itself... and pulling her in.
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Now Anaya is stuck between two worlds: the life she knows, and the story that demands to be completed. But if she doesn’t finish it—something, or someone, will.
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Because unfinished stories don't die.
They wait.
And sometimes, they come back for their author.
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