A book written one page at a time. Every writer sees only the page before theirs.
About this book
Our protagonist, Arthur Canter, is seventeen years old, tall enough to stand out slightly in a crowd but not so tall that anyone would immediately notice him. He has a lean, somewhat awkward build, as though he hasn't quite finished growing into himself yet. His dark brown hair is usually untidy, falling forward over his forehead no matter how often he pushed it back. His face is narrow, with a straight nose and features that could easily disappear into a crowd—until someone looked closely. His grey-green eyes are unusually observant, constantly moving, as though Arthur was always searching for something he couldn't quite name. He has pale skin that rarely saw enough sunlight, and a small scar near his chin from an accident he barely remembered. Arthur usually dressed simply: worn jeans, old sneakers, and whatever shirt happened to be clean. He didn't spend much time worrying about his appearance. There was nothing immediately extraordinary about Arthur Canter. That was, perhaps, what made him so easy to underestimate.
Arthur Canter had always believed that strange things happened somewhere else. They happened in distant cities, in newspapers, or to people whose names were worth remembering. Strange things did not happen on quiet streets before sunrise, and they certainly did not happen to seventeen-year-old boys who were already late for school. Which was why Arthur stopped walking. For a moment, he simply stood there. The street ahead was empty. That wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the bicycle. It lay in the middle of the road. Arthur recognized it immediately. Red frame. Rusted handlebars. One missing pedal. It belonged to someone he knew. He looked around. Nothing. The houses stood quietly on either side of the street, their windows dark against the pale morning sky. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then fell silent. Arthur took a step toward the bicycle. Then another. There was something tied to the handlebars. At first, he thought it was a piece of paper. It wasn't. Arthur stopped again. His stomach tightened. The object was small, metallic, and caught the first hint of sunlight as it moved gently in the morning breeze. He had seen it before. Or at least, he thought he had. That was impossible. Arthur reached for it. And somewhere behind him, something whispered his name. "Arthur." He turned. The street was still empty. But his bicycle was gone.
Only one person can add a page at a time. They started less than a minute ago. This page will refresh on its own the moment it's your turn.