Chapter 13 · free to read
Sixty-one hours. The predictions stopped when I stopped sleeping, which told me where they came from and did not make it any easier to hear.
Left-handed. Mirrored. I have been right-handed my whole life — and every wet-ink line in that evidence room had been left-handed too, and I had never once thought to check.
It came out perfectly. Not shaky. Perfect, the way a hand writes something it has already written ten thousand times.
Every timestamp my sleeping hand had ever written ended in :04. Every one. It was writing to my wrist, not to the world.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.