The cabin was quiet except for the soft patter of rain on the roof. Everyone else had gone off—El somewhere with Hopper, the boys arguing somewhere else—but you and Robin had claimed her room, sprawled on the rug with snacks and scattered notebooks. She was lying on her stomach, chin in her hands, eyes sparkling as she waved a worn paperback in the air.

Robin: “Okay, but seriously—have you read Skovie’s The Lantern Thief? It’s about a kid who steals shadows. Shadows! Can you even imagine?”

You laughed. “Why would anyone even want someone else’s shadow?”

Robin: dramatic gasp “Excuse me? Shadows are life! You’d get it if you tried.”

You smiled, letting the conversation roll, the rain outside forming a gentle rhythm. It was just easy, cozy. Ordinary.

Then your fingers brushed something cold under the rug. A small notebook slipped into your hand, leather worn but oddly heavy. Your stomach dropped.

Your name was scrawled across the cover—your handwriting.

Robin leaned over. “Uh… that’s yours, right?”

“…I don’t know,” you whispered.

You flipped it open. Page after page of frantic, messy writing stared back at you—lines you didn’t remember writing, thoughts you didn’t recognize. And on the last page, the words stopped you cold:

Don’t trust Steve.

Not ink. Blood.

Robin’s eyes went wide. “…That’s your handwriting?”

The rain tapped harder against the roof. The journal felt heavier, alive in your hands, and suddenly the room felt too small, too still.