When the words I wrote began coming true, I thought I was a god.
A single sentence from me made the fish in my tank explode. A description I wrote made raindrops freeze in midair.
The Narrative Administration came to my door and said my writing was destroying reality.
And the female agent who looked exactly like the heroine I had written made a small gesture as she left, one only I would recognize:
It was a habit I had given her in a manuscript I burned seven years ago.
Now the Administration wants me to join them and help “maintain narrative stability.”
But a blood-red countdown suddenly flashed across the screen, warning me:
[Beware. They are the real destroyers of the narrative]
