“Pride.”

That was the first word written on the page.

The ink had carved itself deep into the paper, as if the writer wasn’t using a pen, but pressure — anger forced through trembling fingers.

I found the notebook inside an abandoned apartment at the end of a narrow hallway no one used anymore. The air smelled of dust, mold, and something metallic underneath it all. Every window was shut, yet the curtains moved slightly, breathing with the room.

Below the first word, the handwriting became uneven.

“When my horse collapsed, I checked it.
Something resembling a bullet.”

I frowned. The sentence made little sense, but it carried panic in it. The kind of panic that survives even after the person is gone.

More lines followed.

“A momentary emptiness.
Or perhaps abandonment.”

The ink dragged downward at the end of the sentence, like the writer’s hand had suddenly weakened.

I kept reading.

“Can become violently angry.”

That line was scratched into the paper so deeply it nearly tore through the page.

A floorboard creaked somewhere above me.

I looked up instinctively.

The apartment had been empty for years.

At least, that’s what the landlord said.

The final lines were barely readable.

“Trapped at a single point.
Listening to the rhythm of stars.
Now…
The masses turn to ash.”

The lights went out.

Instantly.

The room drowned in darkness so complete it felt physical, pressing against my skin.

Then came the sound.

Slow footsteps.

Not upstairs.

Not outside the apartment.

Inside the hallway.

Approaching the room I was standing in.

Step.

Step.

Step.

I reached for my phone, but before the screen lit up, I heard breathing directly behind me.

And a voice, cracked and dry as burnt paper, whispered:

“You read it too far.”