“Written in Her Wounds

Zoya had only wanted extra credit.

Between grades, her shattered sleep schedule, and a gnawing need to prove she wasn’t average, she’d gladly agreed to help catalog dusty folklore books in the back of the school library. No one else had volunteered. Not even the quiet girl who collected overdue slips like trophies.

The librarian hadn’t mentioned the door.

Not the one tucked behind the folklore shelf—too perfectly aligned with the wall to be noticed by accident. She hadn’t mentioned the smell, either. It curled like something sour and ancient, a whisper of wet paper and burnt ink. A scent that hung behind her teeth after breathing it.

And she hadn’t mentioned the notebook.

It sat alone in the center of the room, and Zoya wasn’t supposed to be able to enter. The door hadn’t been locked. Just... shy. The kind of passage that lets you in only if you were already looking for something wrong.

Inside: shelves layered with dust so thick it resembled ash, a desk whose legs buckled inward like they were tired of holding secrets, and in the exact center—resting on worn mahogany—was the notebook.

It looked old. Not fragile, just tired. Like it had lived through a hundred hands and still hadn’t told the whole truth.

Zoya hesitated. Her fingers tingled before they even touched it.

The cover was cracked leather, warped, and uneven. A shadow of a name lingered on the front—only half-visible. The letters ghosted across the top corner, as if someone had etched them too hard and then tried to erase them. Ink smudges pulsed like bruises.

She opened the first page.

Blank.

The second: creased.

Third: smudged fingerprints.

Fifth page—her breath caught.

Names. All in different handwriting. Some scrawled in panicked loops. Others printed with precision. A few were underlined. Several were crossed out. And one stopped her breath cold.

Her bully’s name.

She hadn’t seen it written since the incident last spring. The name hit her in the throat—like the sting of freshly spoken shame. Her hands trembled as she flipped forward.

Last page: empty.

She shouldn’t. Every part of her said Don’t. But curiosity is like static—it crackles in your skin even before it explodes.

She took out her pen.

Neat, cursive letters. No emotion. Just ink.

She wrote his name.

She stared.

Nothing happened.

The room held its breath, and so did she.

Zoya shook herself and closed the notebook quickly. Locked it inside her bag before walking out into the dim hallway. The door behind her didn’t close—it disappeared. When she turned around, it was just another panel of wall.

That night, she dreamed of water-soaked pages and echoing footsteps. Of someone scribbling names while shadows clung to their shoulders.

By morning, he was gone.

Not at school. Not online. Not at the house Zoya once had to pass, and clench her fists to survive.

Some said he transferred. Others whispered he’d run away. No one asked Zoya. No one connected the dots.

She did.

And the notebook was still with her.