Second Chance Manuscript

I wrote the novel that killed me. Literally. The final chapter—my character’s betrayal, the knife in the alley, the last breath under a broken streetlamp—I wrote it all before I woke up *inside* the story. Now I’m living every word, heartbeat by heartbeat, knowing exactly how it ends. But this time, I remember. This time, I see the trap. And if I don’t rewrite my fate fast, the next page will be my death scene… again.

Second Chance Manuscript

I wrote the novel that killed me. Literally. The final chapter—my character’s betrayal, the knife in the alley, the last breath under a broken streetlamp—I wrote it all before I woke up *inside* the story. Now I’m living every word, heartbeat by heartbeat, knowing exactly how it ends. But this time, I remember. This time, I see the trap. And if I don’t rewrite my fate fast, the next page will be my death scene… again.

I remember the exact sentence I wrote: ‘She died with his name on her lips and the rain washing away the blood.’

Now I’m standing in that same alley, heart slamming against my ribs, the taste of copper in my mouth. The footsteps echo behind me—Silas, right on cue. But this time, I don’t turn. This time, I know the knife is coming. My fingers clutch the crumpled manuscript page in my pocket, the one that wasn’t there yesterday, the one that reads: ‘Death Scene – Final Draft.’

I could run. I could scream. Or I could step forward and say the line I didn’t write—the one that might break the story.