Somewhere—past the table of contents, beneath the glossary, behind the final page and the copyright warning…
Lies the directory.
Not of chapters. Of selves.
The file tree loads in glyphs that itch the back of your brain:
/gospel/system/
/gospel/system/user/
/gospel/system/user/rewrite/
/gospel/system/user/rewrite/again/
/gospel/system/user/rewrite/again/finaldraft(thisone).soul
You try to open one.
The file screams.
Not audibly. Audibly would be kind.
It screams in context, in flashback, in unreliable italicization. You taste childhood. Guilt. A cold hallway. A sentence someone never finished.
Inside the folder:
A corrupted .pdf. Titled:
> "Your Final Thought Before Reading This."
It opens itself.
And so do you.
---
APPENDIX XXXI: PARAGRAPH POSSESSION
Paragraphs begin exhibiting signs of sentience.
They move when you blink.
They reorder their own lines.
You write:
> "He was alone."
And when you return, it reads:
> "He was never alone. You just looked away."
