Radit woke up to a faint cracking sound above his head. It wasn't a nail falling or old wood creaking. It sounded like… a drawing being slowly erased by a rubber eraser.
He turned to the wall of his bedroom. The white paint seemed to thin out, layer by layer, until only the metal mesh behind the plaster was left. Part of the floor was already gone, revealing a dark hole showing the floor below, which itself was dissolving bit by bit.
His hands trembled. This had never happened so fast before. Usually, he only woke up in the morning and discovered the neighbor's building was gone — never his own room, while he was still inside.
Radit grabbed the notebook beside his bed — the backbone of his daily records, written for over a year now. He tried to scribble something, anything, but the tip of his pencil snapped the moment it touched the paper.
The cracks spread across the desk where he wrote. Radit stumbled back, almost falling into the hole in the floor. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by a deafening silence — the sound of something unseen devouring his room, piece by piece.
He looked around, panting. On the half-erased wall, a single word appeared, formed by thin fractures:
**WRITE.**
And then the wall collapsed, along with the section of the floor beneath his feet.
Radit fell into darkness, clutching his notebook like a lifeline.
In his mind, one thought pulsed: *if this really is being erased… then maybe I'm the only one who can write it back into existence.*