short fiction · 2026-10-06

The Echo in the Margin

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

I slipped the pen across the paper, feeling the ink bleed into the blank page as if it were waiting for a voice. The words that formed were not mine; they were echoes of stories left unsaid, humming just beyond the edge of memory. Each line I wrote seemed to pull at something unseen, like threads pulling on a tapestry still untied. When I read them back, they shimmered, half‑formed and fragile, as if the page itself were breathing. In that quiet moment, I understood that some narratives live only in the spaces between what we speak and what we imagine.