She starts leaving words on the chalkboard in her room — short thoughts, half-finished poems, things she doesn’t say out loud.

Then one morning, there’s a new line that isn’t hers. “I get it.”

She erases it, thinking it’s her dad or a joke. The next night, another appears: “You’re not alone.”

It keeps happening. Sometimes it’s answers to her thoughts, sometimes sketches of things she’s mentioned — a record sleeve, a moth, a cracked heart.

The house is silent when she checks, but the chalk is always a little warm.