Monday started with the headaches.
Not sharp. Not migraine-level. Just dull and weird, like someone was knocking on the inside of his skull and forgot to stop.
August woke up feeling like his head was full of static. Gray morning light filtered through his blinds, too bright and too nothing at the same time. His alarm hadn't gone off yet. 5:47 AM. Too early to be awake, too late to fall back asleep.
He sat on the edge of his bed, holding his face in his hands, whispering "Ow" like it was a prayer that might work if he said it soft enough. The notebook was still on his desk. Closed. But even with his back turned, he could feel it watching.
No. Not watching. Waiting.
"Not today," he muttered into his palms. "I've got school, I've got that history test I didn't study for, and I already have enough going on without my childhood OC having an existential crisis."
He looked over his shoulder.
The notebook hadn't moved. Obviously. It was paper and cardboard and his own messy writing. It couldn't move.
(But Arthur's eyes had been different yesterday. Looking up instead of down. He knew that. He knew it.)
August got dressed in yesterday's jeans and a clean-ish hoodie. Brushed his teeth while staring at his reflection, trying to see if he looked as weird as he felt. Same face. Same dark circles. Same mouth that forgot how to smile properly.
He packed his school bag. Textbooks. Homework he'd half-finished. Phone charger.
The sketchbook.
He hesitated over that last one. Could leave it here. Should leave it here. Lock it in a drawer and pretend the whole thing never happened.
Instead, he slipped it between his chemistry textbook and his binder. Pressed it flat against his back as he slung the bag over his shoulder. Like it might absorb into his spine if he carried it close enough. Like keeping it near would make it behave.
"You're being stupid," he told his reflection.
His reflection didn't argue.
He grabbed a breakfast bar from the kitchen (strawberry, stale), left a note for his mom (gone to school, don't wait up), and headed out into the gray morning.
That's when he noticed the birds.
Or, more accurately, the lack of them.
No chirps. No rustling wings. No early-morning fights between crows over who owned which telephone wire. Just wind. Just his footsteps on concrete.
Too quiet.
August slowed down. Then stopped completely, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like he'd forgotten how walking worked.
He turned slowly in a full circle, trying not to feel stupid. Looking for something. Anything.
No birds.
No insects.
No sound except his own breathing.
The wind touched his face but nothing moved. Not the trees. Not the grass. Not even the plastic bag caught on Mrs. Chen's fence that had been there for three weeks.
Everything was photograph-still.
August took one careful step forward.
The world snapped back.
Leaves rustled. A car engine growled to life three houses down. A dog started barking like it had been holding its breath and finally remembered how to make noise. The plastic bag on the fence crinkled and danced.
He blinked hard, heart suddenly hammering. The headache sharpened (ice pick behind his left eye) then dulled again.
"What the hell was that?" he whispered to no one.
No one answered.
He made it to school on autopilot, feet knowing the way while his brain tried to process what had just happened. The halls were the same as always. Fluorescent lights humming. Lockers slamming. Someone had spilled coffee on the main stairwell again and no one had bothered to clean it up, so now there was a sign that said "CAUTION: WET FLOOR" sitting in the middle of a dry stain.
But August felt off. Like he was walking through a photocopy of his day. Same layout, same people, but somehow thinner. Less real. Like if he pushed too hard against a wall, his hand might go through.
Alex waved from their usual spot by the trophy case. "Yo, you good? You look like you just lost a staring contest with the void."
"The void blinked first," August muttered, sliding up next to him.
"Cryptic. I like it. Very Tuesday energy for a Monday."
"It's Monday?"
"All day, unfortunately." Alex squinted at him. "You been writing again? You get that look when you're deep in story mode."
"Sort of," August said. Which wasn't a lie. Just wasn't the whole truth either.
How did you explain that your old character was possibly alive and definitely pissed? That your notebook was having conversations with you? That reality had just hiccupped on your walk to school?
You didn't. You changed the subject.
"You ready for Rodriguez's test?"
"Nobody's ready for Rodriguez's test. She makes them while possessed by the spirit of academic suffering." Alex shouldered his bag. "Come on. Bell's about to ring."
They split up for homeroom. August slid into his usual seat by the window, dumped his bag on the floor, and immediately pulled out the sketchbook.
He had to check. Just once. Just to prove he was being paranoid.
No new words. No new messages. Just Arthur, still in that kneeling pose from Chapter 9. Hand on his chest. Head bowed.
But.
Arthur was looking up now.
Not at the sky. Not at some invisible distance.
At August.
Right at him. Through the page. Eyes that twelve-year-old August had drawn with careful detail, now holding something that felt too aware for ink and pencil.
The headache pulsed once. Hard.
August shut the book.
By third period, the headache had found a rhythm.
Not just pain—pulses. Like a second heartbeat in his skull, one that didn't belong to him. It didn't sync with his actual pulse. It lagged. Deliberate. Like a drum echoing from somewhere deep underground.
Thump.
(pause)
Thump.
(pause)
Thump.
Mrs. Rodriguez was talking about the French Revolution, something about guillotines and mob justice, but all August could hear was that beat. That wrong rhythm in his head.
He opened the sketchbook under his desk. Had to check again. Had to see.
Arthur was still kneeling. Same pose. Same position.
But the sword had shifted.
Just slightly. The angle was different. The shadow fell wrong. He hadn't drawn it like that. He was sure of it. Twelve-year-old him had been very specific about sword placement (because twelve-year-olds cared about that stuff).
He blinked and looked closer.
No. Definitely different. The blade was tilted now, like someone had bumped it. And Arthur's head…
Arthur's head had turned. Just a few degrees. Still looking up, but now looking up and to the left. Like he'd heard something.
August slammed the book shut.
Too loud. Half the class turned to look.
"Sorry," he mouthed, holding up the book like he'd dropped it. "Slipped."
Mrs. Rodriguez gave him the look teachers perfected in teacher school. The "I'm not mad, just disappointed in your existence" look.
He shoved the sketchbook deep into his bag and stared at the whiteboard for the rest of class, trying to focus on anything except the beat in his head and the way Arthur's eyes had followed something he couldn't see.
Alex caught him in the hallway after class, falling into step beside him.
"Okay, spill. What's going on? You've been weird all day."
"I'm always weird."
"Yeah, but this is advanced weird. This is 'I've seen things mortal eyes shouldn't see' weird."
August stopped walking. Kids flowed around them like they were rocks in a stream.
"You ever think a story could get stuck in you?" he asked.
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Like writer's block?"
"No. Like…" August struggled for words. "Like you write something so hard, put so much of yourself in it, that it doesn't stay in the book. It stays in you. Even after you stop writing. Even after you try to forget."
Alex was quiet for a moment. Then: "Remember when I made that comic about sentient oatmeal that devoured people?"
"Yeah?"
"I couldn't eat breakfast for a month. Had nightmares about Quaker Oats coming for revenge." He shrugged. "So yeah. I get it. Stories stick sometimes."
August almost smiled. Almost. But the pulse in his head was getting stronger.
Thump.
(pause)
Thump.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. August moved through it carefully, like the world might crack if he stepped too hard. He stopped talking as much. Let conversations wash over him. Nodded when people expected him to nod.
But something was wrong with everything.
The fluorescent lights hummed at the wrong frequency. People's voices sounded like they were coming through water. When someone dropped their lunch tray, the crash felt muffled, like the sound had to travel through cotton to reach him.
He opened the sketchbook during lunch. Had to check. Had to know.
Arthur's sword was planted deeper in the ground now. A crack ran through the earth beneath it, spreading like the weight was too much for even drawings to hold. The shading had darkened. Harsh blacks where there used to be soft grays.
But that wasn't the worst part.
There was a second figure in the drawing now.
Way in the background. Barely a sketch. Just an outline of a person, standing in what might have been mist or might have been nothing. No details. No face. Just a shape that suggested "person" without committing to it.
It was watching Arthur.
Or maybe watching August.
Or maybe both.
The headache spiked. August grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles white. The pain rolled through him like a wave, there and gone, leaving him gasping.
"You okay?" someone asked. Maybe the kid next to him. Maybe no one. The cafeteria sounds had gone underwater again.
"Fine," he managed. "Just. Headache."
He didn't open the sketchbook again until last period.
By then, he knew something was really wrong. Not just weird. Not just "I need sleep and maybe therapy" wrong. This was something else. Something that had gotten inside him when he wasn't paying attention.
The pulse in his head had steadied. Still there, still wrong, but familiar now. Like his body was learning to work around it. Adapting.
That scared him more than the pain.
He sat in the back of English class, pretending to read while his thumb traced the edge of the sketchbook. His whole body felt electric. Not nervous. Not excited. Something else. Like a guitar string tuned too tight, waiting to snap.
The second figure in the drawing had moved closer. Still blurry. Still undefined. But definitely closer. And Arthur…
Arthur had shifted too. No longer kneeling. Now he was starting to stand, one hand on his sword for balance, the other still pressed to his chest. His face was turned toward the figure in the mist.
August could see tension in the drawing. In the way Arthur's shoulders set. In the angle of his neck. Like he was preparing for something.
Then came the first jolt.
August flinched hard, hand flying to his ribs. Sharp pain, thin as a razor, sliced across his side. Not deep. Not deadly. Just enough to make his nervous system scream.
He looked down, expecting blood. Expecting torn fabric.
Nothing.
His shirt was fine. His skin was fine. But the pain…
The pain was real.
He opened the sketchbook with shaking hands.
A new line had appeared across Arthur's ribs. Faint. Hair-thin. Like someone had drawn it with the lightest possible touch.
A crack. Or a cut. Right where August's pain was.
"No," he whispered. "That's not. That's not possible."
Another jolt. Shoulder this time. Then his back. Like invisible fingers tracing wounds that hadn't happened yet. Each one sharp enough to make him bite his tongue. Not enough to damage. Just enough to warn.
And with each pain, a new mark appeared on Arthur. Matching. Precise.
August's hands were shaking so bad he could barely hold the pencil. But he had to write. Had to ask.
What's happening to me?
The answer came before he even finished the question. Words appearing like they'd been waiting:
"You're remembering."
Remembering what?
"What it cost. What you paid. What you left behind when you buried me."
August's vision blurred. From tears or pain or something else, he couldn't tell.
The teacher was saying something. Other students were packing up. The bell must have rung. But August couldn't move. Couldn't think past the pulse in his head and the pain in his body and the words appearing faster now:
"Every scar you gave me. Every wound. Every lonely night. Where did you think they went when you closed the book?"
"They stayed with me."
"They stayed in the dark."
"And now you're calling them home."
August stood up so fast his chair fell over. The crash seemed to come from very far away.
"Bathroom," he said to no one. To everyone. To the teacher who might have been asking if he was okay.
He grabbed his bag and ran.
Down the hall. Past the lockers. Past the trophy case. To the far corridor nobody used because the lights didn't work right and it always smelled like old paint.
He pressed his back against the wall, chest heaving. Pulled out the sketchbook with numb fingers.
Arthur was standing now. Fully upright. Sword in hand. Facing the figure in the mist.
And the figure…
The figure was looking directly at August. Through the page. With eyes it didn't have yet.
New words appeared at the bottom. Slower this time. Like they hurt to write:
"If you keep remembering… you'll let it in."
August's mouth went dry. His whole body shook like he'd been dropped in ice water.
He wanted to ask what. Let what in? What was he remembering? What was coming?
But something deep in his gut, something that felt older than his own memories, already knew.
The thing in the mist wasn't separate from Arthur.
It was what Arthur had been fighting all along.
And August had drawn it. Created it. Given it shape and purpose and hunger.
Then abandoned it in the dark with nothing to feed on but the character he'd loved most.
The headache pulsed. The walls felt thin. Reality creaked like old wood under too much weight.
And somewhere in the space between what was real and what was written, something that had been waiting twelve years to finish its story began to smile.