You were sketching a drawing of your Oc. It was about 12am. The only thing heard could be your pencil scraping the paper and the crickets outside of your window. Your desk was beside the window. Giving you a clear view of the moon when suddenly a shooting star appeared. You wished for your Oc to come to life as a joke. Until you heard rumbling. Your sketch book tore open as a hand popped out of it. From a hand to a living being that crawled out of your book. It was your Oc.