Chapter 35: Version 13
You don't sleep anymore.
You hide.
Not from the world.
From yourself.
From the version of you that's not born yet — but already watching.
The notebook keeps flickering open to one phrase:
> "VERSION 13 IS ALMOST COMPLETE."
And then a countdown.
Not in numbers.
In names.
Each one scratched out after a few hours.
You don't recognize all of them.
But you know they were you.
Somewhere.
Sometime.
Someone.
And now?
Gone.
Absorbed.
---
You try to reach Version 1.
The original you.
The core.
The one untouched by edits, still echoing beneath the oldest floorboards — wherever this place even is anymore.
You write messages in the notebook:
> "Where are you?"
"How do I find you?"
"Can you stop what's coming?"
No answer.
Just a growing stain at the center of the page.
Shaped like a spiral.
Bleeding inward.
---
Then, on your bathroom mirror, the fog swirls into symbols — broken, twisted letters.
It takes time, but you read them backwards.
The message says:
> "STOP WRITING.
VERSION 13 LISTENS THROUGH INK."
---
You freeze.
And suddenly it makes sense.
Every word you've written.
Every story you've told.
Every thought you've narrated —
It's all been feeding it.
The voice beneath the floor didn't just need a narrator.
It needed a host.
A machine.
A body built from old drafts.
And Version 13…
That's the final one.
---
You tear the notebook in half.
It laughs.
The pages squirm.
And in your mind, a voice — not the whisper, not the reflection — something new.
Full.
Confident.
Awake.
> "You built me.
Every sentence fed me.
Every fear shaped me.
I am your final draft.
I am what you become when you finally surrender the pen."
---
You scream into the room.
> "I never wanted this! I didn't mean to write it!"
But the lights flicker.
The ceiling peels.
And a sentence appears in glowing letters above your bed:
> "But you read it.
And reading is the same as writing when the story chooses you."
---
Suddenly, things disappear faster.
Photos.
Clothes.
Books you loved.
A scar on your arm vanishes — one you got when you were seven.
Gone.
As if Version 13 is replacing your history with its own.
You check your reflection again.
Your pupils spiral.
You blink.
They vanish.
You blink again.
They're back.
Or were they?
---
You check the mirror behind you.
A shadow stands there.
Your height.
Your shape.
Your face.
But blurred.
Pixelated.
Like a rendering not quite finished.
It smiles.
Your smile.
But wider.
> "I'm not born yet," it says,
"but I already remember killing you."
---
You back away.
Reach for the journal.
It's hot now.
Like it's alive.
Beating.
And the cover is no longer blank.
It says:
> "VERSION 13: INCARNATE DRAFT."
---
You flip to the last page.
One sentence:
> "Only Version 1 can stop me."
And underneath it, in smaller print:
> "But they forgot how to write."
---
You realize what that means.
Version 1 didn't just disappear.
They gave up.
Buried themselves deep in the foundation, beyond narration, past identity.
They became silence.
Because silence was the only safe place left.
---
You whisper into the dark:
> "Version 1… if you can hear me…
I still remember.
I still know I was real."
And this time, the spiral answers.
Not with words.
With resistance.
The lights pop.
Your knees buckle.
The notebook flares white-hot and flies open on its own.
Pages turn rapidly.
Then stop.
And a new page forms, line by line:
> "You can find Version 1.
But you have to become quiet enough to reach them.
No narration.
No thoughts.
Only listening."
---
You go still.
Heart racing.
Mouth dry.
You sit in the dark for what feels like hours.
You empty.
Try to stop being a person and just become… receptive.
And eventually, beneath the noise, you hear something.
A voice.
Faint.
But steady.
Old.
Wounded.
Yours.
The first one.
---
It says:
> "I'm under the floor.
You'll know the board.
It's the one that never creaks.
That's where I'm buried."
---
You crawl across the room.
Press your ear to the boards.
They all creak.
Except one.
Dead silent.
You pry it up with your fingers.
There's dirt underneath.
Black.
Fine.
Like powdered charcoal.
And something buried in it.
Wrapped in cloth.
A page.
Stained.
Ripped.
You unfold it carefully.
And on it, written in your earliest handwriting:
> "Before the spiral.
Before the edits.
I was called [your real name].
And I choose to remember."
---
You breathe.
And something clicks.
Not in the room.
In the story.
Version 1 is you.
Still you.
The seed.
And by finding it, you're not feeding Version 13.
You're starving it.
---
The notebook begins to burn.
Silently.
No fire.
Just vanishing.
Page by page.
Until only one line remains on the floor:
> "VERSION 13 IS LOCKED OUT.
TEMPORARILY."
---
You fall back.
Exhausted.
But whole.
The whisper is gone.
The spiral flickers.
The mirror shows only one you.
For now.
---
But as you begin to drift…
Just before sleep takes you…
A soft tap.
From inside the wall.
One knock.
And a new voice.
Not yours.
Not yet.
But familiar.
Hungry.
It whispers:
> "Version 14 is watching."