I had a dream. A painting. A girl sitting in front of a mirror. And a voice I didn't recognize said quietly: — Fox… that's you. Then another voice appeared. Older. Archival. Like it was playing from tape. — If you don't rewrite this… it will happen. I woke up. Opened my draft. And there, between the lines, a sentence had appeared that I don’t remember writing: “From the part of you that lives in the mirror… that's the one I'm protecting you from.” What if “rewrite it” wasn’t about the story… but about something that already started leaking through. I checked the document history. The line was added before I woke up.