Mira wasn’t like the others.

In a town where everyone was ordinary—flesh and blood, bone and sinew—she was made of paper. Thin, delicate, a walking stack of pages bound together in the vague shape of a girl. When she moved, she rustled. When the wind blew too hard, she had to clutch herself tightly, afraid she might scatter.

Everyone laughed.

“Don’t cry, Mira! You’ll turn into mush!”

“Careful! One match and—poof!”

“I bet a good rainstorm could take her out.”

The words cut worse than scissors, but she smiled anyway. Smiling was safe. Smiling was what kept her from crumpling.

At school, kids flicked the corners of her pages, sometimes tearing little pieces away. Teachers sighed but did nothing—what could they do? She was different. That was just the way of things.

One day, a boy—Ethan—ripped a piece from her arm and held it up to the light. “What’s written on you, anyway?” he mused.

That was the thing. Mira’s skin wasn’t blank. The words were tiny, unreadable to the naked eye, but they were there. Stories, poems, maybe her own thoughts—she had never dared to look too closely.

Ethan squinted at the torn scrap. His lips moved as he tried to read. Then he laughed. “Guys, listen to this! ‘I just want to be normal. I just want to be—’”

Mira snatched the paper from his hand before he could finish.

That night, she stood at her window, staring at the town below. The wind was gentle, carrying the scent of rain. She reached up and peeled a page from her forearm, watching it flutter into the breeze. Then another. Another.

The wind took her in pieces, carrying her words where no one could mock them.

By morning, Mira was gone. All that remained was a single torn page, caught on a fencepost.

No one stopped to read it.

And no one ever would.