Interlinear

Interlinear is a story about a woman who vanishes — not all at once, but rhythmically, syllable by syllable.

She writes. Slowly. Carefully. Each sentence becomes a key, and between the sentences, something opens — a room. Not a metaphor. Not a dream. A real place made of breath and memory. One visit smells like wallpaper glue and lost childhood. Another hums with the blue of a forgotten dress. The rooms shift each time, like songs with no chorus. She changes with them.

Outside, the flat grows quiet. Objects stay where they are left. The kettle blinks once, then forgets. Her hands begin to forget how to hold. Her reflection dissolves. The manuscript begins to write itself — paragraphs blooming overnight, soft as sleep. Her name grows faint in her own mouth. She wonders if she ever needed one.

Inside the in-between, there is no need for a body. Only rhythm. Echo. Pause.

Interlinear is a book made of silence and memory, written in the spaces between things. A frequency you don’t read so much as enter. A language folding inward. A comma learning how to breathe.

This is not a story about escape.
This is a story about becoming the pause.