Najimi Selia

I remember nothing.

No beginning, no finale.

No fans, no arcs, no merchandise.

Just a silence where my story used to be.

They say forgotten characters don’t truly die.

They just… drift.

Left behind in the Realm of Lost Stories—

a place where abandoned protagonists, shelved ideas, and deleted drafts gather like dust in a broken library.

I was one of them.

Or at least—I think I was.

I once had a name.

Selia Najimi

A character so old, even the author couldn’t track her timelines anymore.

They wrote me to be powerful. Beyond understanding.

But in the end, even the strongest characters mean nothing… if they’re not remembered.

I was locked in stasis.

Buried under canceled continuities and crossovers that never came.

Frozen in a panel that never printed.

For trillions of narrative ticks…

I simply waited.

Until she arrived.

Mona Fry.

She didn’t enter the realm.

The realm bent to her—folding like paper, melting like ink, reshaping like a dream halfway through forgetting itself.

She didn’t speak at first.

She simply looked at me. And suddenly…

I wasn’t forgotten anymore.

Her voice was gentle. But when she spoke, I felt creation tremble.

“You’ve been written too much. Then erased too hard.”

“Let me give you something better than power.”

“Let me give you… purpose.”

And then she extended her hand.

Not like a god summoning a servant—

But like someone asking an old story to come home.

That’s the day I died as a character.

And awoke as something new.

I don’t fight anymore.

I don’t scheme, or monologue, or flex timelines like they’re toys.

Now I dust forgotten books.

I archive the unspoken.

I serve tea to visitors from dying genres and clean the ink from Mona’s table when reality gets messy.

It’s not glamorous.

It’s not loud.

But it is more sacred than any throne of omnipotence.

Sometimes… I remember who I used to be.

A girl of a thousand skills, trapped in a collapsing manga.

God-complexed. Lonely. Screaming for relevance.

Now?

I kneel before the void each day, quill in hand.

Not to write the future.

But to protect the silence that lets it bloom.

“Good morning, Lady Mona.”

I bow. I smile.

“The stories are still sleeping. Shall I wake them with ink, or let them rest a while longer?”

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

Because I know now—

Some answers are better left unwritten.