It began in the library.
The one room they stopped watching closely.
Maybe they thought no one reads anymore.
Maybe they never imagined paper could be louder than screaming.
---
I tore the pages gently.
Folded them tight.
Slipped them into the books no one borrowed —
the quiet ones, the classics, the ones people only pretended to love.
And on each page, I wrote one truth.
> "Celia Winters didn't disappear. She was erased."
> "They altered my file."
> "You're not crazy for feeling watched. You are."
> "If you're reading this, you're already part of it."
---
I never signed my name.
But the pages spoke loud enough.
Within days, people started acting differently.
Not loud. Not obvious.
Just… awake.
---
One girl nodded at me in the hallway —
a kind of nod that said, "I know. I read."
Another handed me a book during group
and whispered,
> "You dropped this,"
even though it wasn't mine.
Inside?
My page.
Folded.
Read.
Re-folded.
---
It spread like breath.
No phones. No internet.
But truth doesn't need Wi-Fi to move.
It just needs hunger.
And we were starving for real things.
---
On the seventh day, a nurse came into the library.
Panicked.
Started flipping through random books.
Someone had tipped them off.
But it was too late.
Because I hadn't just hidden pages.
I'd planted a question in every one of them:
> "What if you're not alone?"