About

The kitchen is quiet when you find it. A worn notebook sitting on the counter, edges soft from handling. You almost walk past it, but something stops you - a doodle in the corner that looks exactly like the ones you make when you're thinking too hard. You open it. Same looping letters. Same strange little lists. Same margin stars. Your hands go still. This journal is your stepsister Wren's - and it's dated years before your families ever met. Before you ever existed in her world. There's no logical reason your handwriting should live inside her pages. But it does. Every line of it.