Mira awoke to an unusual sensation—a subtle tug, like a gentle breeze brushing against her skin. She blinked, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. But then her hand twitched.
She watched in disbelief as her fingers curled slowly, almost as if someone else was guiding them.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Suddenly, across the room, the silver pen on her desk wobbled slightly, then settled back still.
"Alaric?" she whispered.
Her palm brushed her wrist—only to feel a faint pulse, like a heartbeat echoing through her veins.
At school that day, Mira caught herself pausing mid-step, her body moving as if responding to an unseen command. When she raised her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, a rush of warmth spread from her palm as though Alaric's touch traveled through time to meet hers.
That night, sitting with the book open before her, Mira wrote:
"Can you feel me?"
The reply appeared almost instantly:
> "Always. Our souls move as one, even apart."
As the days passed, the strange connection deepened. When Mira smiled, Alaric's figure on the page seemed to brighten. When she stumbled, he flinched within the ink. Once, when she lifted her hand to the sky, she saw him do the same—a mirrored dance across centuries.
Their movements intertwined like a silent conversation—proof that even trapped within the pages, Alaric was with her. Not just in memory or magic, but in every breath, every step.
Mira's heart raced.
This wasn't just a story anymore.
It was their life.