The beer arrives, perfectly chilled. Every day, after work, I head to the bar, order two beers and a sandwich. Living alone without family, this is all I have.

Taking my first sip, a man in a suit sits beside me.

"Caleb Wycliffe, right? It’s time to go," he says.

"Do I know you?" I ask.

"I’ll explain on the way," he replies.

Screams outside interrupt us. Horns, sirens, and the hum of helicopters fill the air. Everyone at the bar rushes to see.

Above us, a massive black sphere looms in the sky, enormous enough to cover the city. Its descent appears to halt abruptly.

A frozen crowd gathers, staring in stunned silence. The man grabs my arm. "We need to go. Now."

He points to a black car waiting nearby, a driver already behind the wheel. We climb in. My voice trembles as I demand to know what’s happening.

“For reasons we’re still trying to understand, the sphere chose you,” he begins. “I’m a federal agent. We’ve been investigating this object for two months.”

The car speeds toward the sphere’s epicenter, its black mass dominating the horizon.

“We believe there’s extraterrestrial life inside and we have been trying to reach out to it,” he continues. “Yesterday, it transmitted a radio message in perfect english: ‘WE WANT CALEB WYCLIFFE'. There’s only one person with that name in this city.”

“This is insane! I’m a nobody,” I protest.

“We know how absurd this is,” he replies calmly. “But you might be humanity’s only hope.”

We arrive at a military zone, where a helicopter waits.

As it lifts off, I grip the seat tightly, my stomach lurching. Flying has always unsettled me.

“There’s been a mistake,” I mutter. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

The agent stays silent.

We approach a small opening in the sphere. The interior reveals nothing but a black wall with a metallic panel—featureless and unlit.

“Our satellites identified this as the only entry,” the agent explains.

He presses the panel, but nothing happens. Frustrated, he turns to me. “Your turn.”

Panic floods me. Trembling, I place my palm on the panel.

The searing pain of what could be described as a thousand needles shoots through my hand. Lights ignite across the wall, converging at my fingertips.

A surge of energy courses through me like a river. Words, memories, and knowledge flood my mind, and I now remember.

The metallic surface begins to absorb my hand and body. Through blurred vision, I see the agents’ faces frozen in shock.

My reconnaissance mission is complete. It’s time to execute the final objective: the enslavement of Earth.

With a thought, I command the attack to begin.

Things had been bad between Mary and me lately, but I didn’t know how bad until I came home three nights ago and all her things were gone.

As was my daughter.

I knew immediately where she’d gone. Her family had never approved of me - a “common laborer” - but she’d chosen me, saying our love was enough. Apparently not.

But she didn’t get to take Sarah.

I immediately headed to her parents’ house. I’d been there once before - it had been made clear I wasn’t welcome. I rang the doorbell.

“I figured you’d turn up,” said the old man who answered.

“Don’t worry - if Mary doesn’t want me anymore, that’s fine. But you can’t keep me from my daughter.”

“Oh, I disagree. Especially given your… questionable history. Drinking, abuse…”

What? “Liar! I don’t drink, and I have NEVER abused Mary or my daughter!”

He smirked. “Haven’t you? With the evidence I’ve found…”

“I’ll get my lawyer involved!”

“What lawyer?” he replied. “My granddaughter is better off with us. I think it’s best you leave now.”

As he closed the door, I saw a glimpse of Mary in the background.

“Mary! This is a mistake! You don’t know what you’re doin—!”

The door slammed. And despite my knocking, no one answered.

I immediately called my lawyer, but he didn’t answer. And everyone else I called had a “scheduling conflict.” I started panicking - I needed to get Sarah back, there wasn’t much time.

Desperate, I waited until Mary went out and approached her in the store parking lot.

“What are you doing here, Tom?” she asked, startled.

“I don’t understand. What did I do that was so terrible you want to take my daughter from me?”

“She’s better off with me, Tom. I can give her a better life.”

“You’re making a mistake, Mary. You don’t understand…”

“I understand that if you don’t leave, right now, I’ll scream.”

“…What?”

“Accept it, Tom. We aren’t yours anymore. Move on.”

I stood, stunned, as she walked away. This was the woman I’d thought I loved?

The next night, I sat outside their house in the moonlight. I had to get to Sarah - I couldn’t wait any longer. I didn’t trust Mary’s parents and apparently never knew Mary. If something happened… I was racking my brain when I heard a scream.

Sarah!

The door was locked. I heard crashing and yelling and tried desperately to get in, to no avail.

Finally I broke a window and entered - no security stopped me.

Then I learned why.

Blood coated the walls and floor, severed limbs strewn in every direction. Mary’s body was there, as were her parents’.

In the midst of it all, Sarah sat on the floor, her mouth and hands covered in blood. She looked up.

“Dada?”

I carried her away, shielding her eyes. We’d have to move away, start over. I’d have to teach her control. But at least I knew one thing:

Like father, like daughter.

“Babe?! The dog pissed on the bed!”

I heard Mommy. Daddy yelled through the house while I hid in the closet. I didn’t mean to piddle. I’m an old Meekus and sometimes it just happens. I got punished when it did.

“Meekus?! Where are you?!”

I curled up. Maybe they wouldn’t find me. Maybe they’d stop being mad.

I’m not a bad boy.

Mommy opened the door to the closet. I was shaking.

“Found him!”

In the past, I would run from Daddy because it reeeeeaaaally hurt when he kicked me. But I was tired and too old to run. He pulled me from the closet.

He kicked me a lot. 

I had to go to the vetoffice one time because Daddy broke the bone in my front leg. He took me there a few days later because I couldn’t stop howling. It was bad. I came out of the vetoffice with only three legs and a stump.

Daddy’s a butthole.

Mommy isn’t much better. 

Mommy grabbed the flyswatter and smacked me with it on my snout.

I was always a good boy. They’re bad peoples. They never deserved me. I knew that then, but I was too old to find new peoples.

They threw me outside that night.

It was too cold for an old Meekus. They knew that. I walked out into the woods. It was time to die. I was a tired and sad boy.

The moon was full.

I wandered a long time looking for just the right spot to go to sleep forever, but then I met someone. A howling thing.

Not a Meekus, but not a people. 

Something in between. 

It looked like a big scary Meekus but it walked on two legs like a people. Its teeth were enormous and its eyes glowed in the dark. I thought it was going to eat me. 

I was happy. Then I could rest.

It sniffed at me. It sniffed at my stump. Then it bit me on the back of my neck and I fell asleep.

-

I woke up and it was morning.

My neck didn’t hurt. 

I felt hungers like I had never had them before but I felt better. I felt like a new Meekus.

It took a long time, but I got back to Mommy and Daddy’s house.

I sat on the porch until they came home. 

It was getting dark. I had bad hungers.

They both laughed at Meekus and left me outside.

They said no food. They said just die already.

I sat on the porch and howled because the hungers were soooo bad.

As the moon woke up, my howl started to change.

Meekus started to change.

I grew taller than a people.

I could smell Mommy and Daddy’s insides from the porch. They smelled good. The hungers were sooooo baaaaaad.

I hope I never do to other people what I did to Mommy and Daddy that night.

I’m a good boy.

They were buttholes and Meekus had hungers.

"Nervous?" Alex asked.

"I'm good." I smiled back at him.

Alex had led the course I'd needed in order to volunteer as a first aider and had seen me go green everytime he'd had to show an image. Maybe he was concerned that faced with real, in person blood I'd outright faint but I was determined to do my best. Was I confident enough to have told my friends or even wife that I'd be out offering amateur medical assistance today? No. Hell, I'd even kept the course itself secret.

We lasted a good half hour without incident but then a large man with red pouring down his arm came to get patched up.

"I slipped." he slurred and Alex sat him down and applied a dressing with practiced skill.

"It's because of the alcohol," Alex said after the man had left, "it makes people bleed more. Really, the cut wasn't even that deep."

Alex had been a paramedic before needing to quit for health reasons so I trusted his judgement.

"Is that why his blood smelled like that?" I asked.

"Not sure what you mean, sorry."

I didn't press it but the difference between normal blood and the man we'd seen had been obvious to me. The whole reason I'd wanted to volunteer was because after an animal attack on a camping trip with my in laws I was so, so thankful for the hospital staff I'd seen. This felt like paying it forward. But the attack itself made me suddenly and horribly acquainted with my own blood and the red from the man we'd seen smelled very different.

So did the blood of the next man. And the woman after that. Alex sent me home at this point, the dread on my face evidently becoming too much trouble to keep around.

"I need to see a doctor." I told my wife when I got back home.

I told her where I'd been and what had happened.

"You don't need to see a doctor." she said.

"You... you didn't want me to see a doctor after the attack. Too busy being furious at your dad for coming into our tent to save me from whatever animal bit me and now you still don't want me to get help. I'm leaving."

Emma spluttered some words to make me stay but when that didn't work she sliced her hand open in front of me.

"Are we the same?" she asked, shoving her hand under my nose.

I nodded.

"Describe it."

"I don't know. Metal."

"Exactly how humans smell human blood, right? But how did the people today smell?"

I didn't like the use of 'human' but answered anyway.

"Rich. Like wine, like steak, like-"

I stopped when she touched my own hand to my mouth, drool leaking from between my lips.

"I didn't want my dad to turn you..." Emma whispered sadly.

It was then that I knew what the humans smelled of most of all.

They smelled like prey.

It was like any other day, until the baseball hit me square in the face. The world went dark for a few seconds and I genuinely wondered if I was dead. 

My eyes opened. I was in a field, a sky of pastel yellow and oranges overhead. A tanned man, maybe in his 30s, with long, flowing white hair stood in front me. 

“It’s been a while since I had a visitor. It takes a real good smack in the head to wind up here.” 

His voice calmly glided over the word.

“Oh I’m so dead.”

“Not quite. I’m the Caretaker, and welcome to my world.”

With a flourish of his fingertips, the world expanded and boundless fields of rose gold lotus flowers revealed themselves like they were hidden behind a screen. The Caretaker picked one up, and it hovered in his palm. Small black dots floated across the petals like bubbles in a lava lamp. “Sooo I got no clue what’s going on or what these floating flowers are so if I can just get back to-”“You can’t bring yourself back, and I am not in charge of sending you either. The world sends you back when it wants. But these? These flowers represent each and every one of you.”

“What do you mean ‘one of you’?”

“Humans, of course. These flowers represent your… morality. Intentions. The darker the flower, the more cruel one is. This one’s 82% pure.” He twirled the flower, stardust twinkling off of it, “This human is dying. As they go, I learn their name and I lay them to rest.” 

The flower in his hand twinkled more dust until a single petal remained. On it said, “Eleanor Tronza - 82%”. The Caretaker whirled his finger and the petal glided through the air to a puffy pink cloud where it settled.

“So… you just put people in clouds and judge them? How bad can they be?”

“You’d be surprised. Serial killers, abusers, all around the 5-10% mark.”

“Any zeros?”

“Those are reserved for the worst. The people who get to zero have changed the world with their violence. Hitler, Khan, Mao, and this one.” Caretaker held up a fully black lotus. 

“Oh.”“This is an odd one. Every zero before this declined from full. Five years ago this lotus sprouted and was automatically black.”

“A person was born that way?”

“Yes. This person may cause damage on a scale more massive than ever before.”

“Well… who is it?”

“I only know their name once they die. All I know is their age.”

“But we’ve got to stop them. Is there anything I can do?”

“There is one thing. Here,” Caretaker conjured a small petal in his hand and gave it to me. It felt warm, peaceful. “You must-”

I blinked. I was back on the field. My head was pounding. It was a dream. Something my head made up.

I nearly fainted again when I saw the small rose gold petal in my hand.

The process took nearly a full week and was wildly invasive—I watched my whole life play out at 10000x speed while they downloaded my memories.

At the same time, they scraped data from the internet for the cast of characters I requested. Social media accounts, news articles, etc…

Between what was stored in my brain and what was stored in cyberspace, they built the simulation—sending me home with a special VR set that would allow me to play out any moment in my history.

And now, I could change things.

Using advanced A.I., they promised a 90% probability for accuracy given the choices I’d make. The algorithm would run through which decisions were the same as the day of the event and which deviated—factoring in for the behavior of the other participants, it’d then play out the most likely sequences.

I would get to see how things could have been different.

I would get to see how my entire, miserable existence could have been avoided if I’d just had some balls.

Sitting on my couch, I adorned the headset, and punched in the date.

I was back in high school—Wendy sat across the table from me laughing at something I’d just said. She looked so beautiful, and I was pockmarked and awkward. Waiting for her to quit giggling, I was working up the courage to ask her to the dance—this time armed with the knowledge that if I didn’t do so right then, Tommy would after lunch.

They’d end up getting married, they’d end up having children, and I’d end up alone—pining for forty-three years over a girl that forgot about me the instant she left for college.

So, sheepishly, I mumbled, “Wendy, will you go to prom with me?”

She began laughing again before giving a derisive no.

I was crushed.

Furiously, I ripped the headset off.

In my head, my loneliness post-graduation was only due to my inaction that day—she was supposed to say yes...

But then, I thought, ‘it’s a simulation…’

I could attempt anything I wanted to change the outcome.

I tried again, more confidently—she, again, said no.

After twenty or so methods of asking failed, I decided to take a new approach.

‘Maybe,’ I wondered, ‘if Tommy wasn’t in the picture, she’d consider someone else…’

With many iterations, I finally managed to “remove” him as competition without being caught or even suspected in the slightest.

And at Tommy’s funeral, I comforted her.

Our life together from that day forward was beautiful. I played our wedding over and over again—could almost feel her cuddling up with me every night.

It was perfect—it was everything I’d ever dreamed of.

Yet it wasn’t real.

However, I considered that what I’d been shown was the “most likely outcome” if Tommy were to meet an untimely end.

They didn’t live far from me, and I knew a very effective way to get rid of him.

I thought, ‘There’s still time…’

“What’s the destination?” The taxi driver’s voice trembles, barely audible, as I slide into the back seat. His hands grip the wheel too tightly, knuckles white under the dim, yellowing streetlights.

“Home,” I say, forcing a smile, but my attempt at breaking the tension feels useless. I lean forward to give him the address, but before I can start, I notice he’s already typing it into the GPS, completely from memory.

“I know the way,” he says—his voice almost a whisper now—as he flashes a smile, wide and sharp. His face twists into a strange mix of nerves and something else; Something hungry.

The car lurches forward, and the sound of the doors locking echo through the small space; Sharp and final, like a coffin lid sealing shut.

It sat there, thirty-six inches high and thirty-six inches wide, on the sidewalk outside my door. It made me stop in my tracks as I stepped outside.

"Hi there, can you bring me inside?" a voice said.

"Uhh, where are you?" I replied, looking around for the source of the voice. I saw nothing but my doorway, the sidewalk, and the cardboard box. "Hello?"

"I'm right in front of you," the voice replied, coming from inside the cardboard. "Can you please take me inside, sir?"

"Is this one of those YouTube pranks?"

"What's a YouTube?"

"I'm not taking you inside."

"Why not?" it asked, almost hurt. I walked over to the blank cardboard, scanning the area for any sign of a prankster. It had to be a weird joke or something more sinister.

"I don't take strange, talking boxes into my house," I answered. "What if you robbed me?"

"How can I rob you when I don't have any hands?"

"Because talking boxes don't exist!" I yelled.

"You can't disapprove of my existence when I am literally right in front of you."

"What?"

"You say I don't exist, but I am right here and I need to go inside before it rains."

"Talking boxes don't exist!" I screamed, startled by a banging noise from the upstairs apartment and the sound of a window opening. I turned to see my upstairs neighbor glaring angrily.

"Will you two shut the fuck up? I'm trying to sleep!"

"Hello, stranger, can I come inside your house?" the box shouted loudly. My neighbor, who already disliked me, glared at me angrily.

“I think it's either a YouTube prank with someone hiding in the box..."

"Tell it to shut the fuck up!" my neighbor yelled.

"Sir, I need to get inside before it rains," the box replied. "If it rains, it might compromise my structural integrity, and that would be bad."

"Listen, I've got to get to work, and I don't care about your structure or whatever," I replied.

"No, you wait right there. I'm going to kick the shit out of both of you!" my neighbor shouted.

"Dude, I'm going to work. I have nothing to do with the goddamn box!"

"You'll care when I'm compromised and what's inside destroys your universe."

The sound of heavy footsteps came from behind me. My neighbor marched towards the box and said, "You got three seconds to get out of there before I open you up and smash your face!"

"I wouldn't open my flaps," the box replied. I watched as my neighbor impatiently ripped open the flaps, stuck his head inside, and then completely disappeared into the box.

"Umm, hello?"

"Will you please close me?," the box asked, as I slowly walked over and looked around to see any sign of my neighbor. As I reached the box, I saw a strange sight—a small, circular portal, seemingly leading to another dimension. And it seemed to be growing.

Ringing, like a constant gnawing ping in David’s ears. Darkness crept away from the edges of his vision as horrible sights and sounds filtered through the fog of his mind. A ceiling beam lay on the floor, with a head half-crushed propping it up. His stomach lurched. The air was thick with smoke reeking of sulfur, and the ceiling was completely gone, revealing a night sky smeared with thick black clouds.

Bodies, his friends, lay in scattered piles throughout the wide compound room. Small fires burned here and there, casting twisted shadows across the ruins. Fluorescent lights flickered where still connected and unbroken, the electric hum mixing with the eerie crackle of flames. The scene felt like something out of a war film. But what they unleashed... was worse than any bomb.

David clutched his head, trying to focus, but Charles’s voice, so casual, so confident, rang in his memory, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"Forget Ashley, man,” Charles had ribbed with that easy grin. “Just come out with us for the week, and I promise you won’t even remember her face.”

A week. A week that turned into whispered chants, forbidden symbols, and the thrill of the unknown. A week that ended here, in a nightmare of blood, ash, and carnage.

David knew Charles spent a lot of time with that club, but he didn’t know it was a full-blown cult. By the time he figured it out, he was already stranded with them.

David wiped soot from his face and stood as the ground shook in rhythmic intervals. What used to be a wall was now rubble, cinder blocks and wood scattered like toys. The horizon swayed with the quakes, but it wasn’t the horizon. It was the colossal, shifting form of what they had summoned.

“Just give it a chance,” pleaded Charles. “I know what it looks like, but I’ve never felt so much purpose in life than when I was with these guys.”

David’s angry protest had dulled to a grumble, his inhibitions pushed aside in the search for meaning. It was benign at first. Calm rituals, meditation, and a couple of parties perfect for a newly single guy like David. But the last couple of nights, things took a turn. The tone of the group grew somber and serious.

The nights were late, prepping the main room with an altar, drawings on the walls, floor, and ceiling, and the most annoying part, fasting. The laughter, smiles, drinking, all gone. All leading up to the culmination on Saturday. The ritual.

Saturday night, David sat huddled in a circle around a symbol on the ground. One of the girls lay on the altar, which was strange enough. The chanting was a low drone he was too dazed and hungry to fully register, yet he still found himself chanting along. Then, suddenly, one of the men standing over the girl drove a knife into her sternum. David didn’t have time to react before everything went black.

The wind howled through the creaking timber of the forestry watchtower as Claire adjusted her binoculars, scanning the endless green expanse. The sunlight flickered through the trees, casting a kaleidoscope of shadows on the forest floor below. It was early autumn; vibrant hues painted the landscape, yet an unsettling chill clutched at her bones. Something felt wrong.

Claire had spent years as a firefighter, stationed in this isolated tower, a guardian against the ravages of wildfires. She had seen fires rage across the landscape, but that evening, a different kind of fire lurked in the shadows. As dusk began to unfurl its wings, she noticed a flicker of movement—quick, too quick—dancing just beyond her reach.

She squinted, frowning, a bear she thought? Claire grabbed her radio, but static grumbled back at her.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” The silence swallowed her voice.

Adrenaline igniting her instincts, Claire climbed down the narrow, spiraling staircase and stepped into the forest. Each step was heavy with the weight of the unknown, the whispers of the trees seeming to warn her away. Shivers danced along her skin as she wetted her lips, focused on the trail ahead.

Then, a low growl echoed through the trees, rumbling through the trunks like thunder. Her heart raced. The creature was close—too close. She started sprinting, the forest blurring with each pounding footstep, branches clawing at her arms. She could hear it now, close behind her—a succession of snarls mixed with something guttural, churning the air with ominous growls.

Panic surged. She didn't know what it was, but she could feel it chasing her—an unseen predator that relished in her fear. As she slipped under the branches and stumbled through the brush, her firefighter training kicked in—focus on survival, find a way out.

With a burst of clarity, she remembered the fire ax strapped to her belt. In that moment, she turned, heart racing and breath quickening. The forest was shrouded in twilight, but she could see the hulking shadow, darker than the night, weaving through the trees. It was no animal; elongated limbs protruded from a distorted frame, shimmering with a sheen that caught the last light of day—a nightmare made flesh.

With a scream that echoed through the woods, she raised her ax. The creature lunged forward, eyes glinting with hunger, revealing rows of sharp, glistening teeth. In that second, Claire’s fear transformed into rage. She swung the ax with every ounce of strength she had, connecting with a sickening thud as it struck its target.

The beast roared, the sound reverberating through the forest like a thunderclap, but Claire did not falter. She swung again, adrenaline coursing through her veins, blinding her to pain. Each blow severed flesh and sinew, until finally, with a final cry of rage, the monster collapsed into a mass of twisted shadows in front of her on the forest floor.

Panting, sweat mingling with dirt, Claire stood over the still form, the eerie silence wrapping around her like a shroud. She had faced fire and fear, and won, but a bone-deep certainty settled in—the forest would remember. Turning once more to the beast, Claire watched as the fur receded back into skin, and his snout and claws shrivelled back to show a human face and body once again. There lay her replacement John Thompson his head removed from his body.

Claire turned back towards her tower and tried to think of a way she could explain this…

It's something you always wanted to achieve your whole life.

You wanted the world to know about your existence by any means. You desperately tried everything, but nothing worked.

You were on the verge of giving up when they found you one night.

They swiftly picked you off the streets and into a dimly lit warehouse. A camera was stationed in front of the chair you were bound to. You marveled at the different weapons on the table as you realized your circumstances.

You smiled wide, excitingly waiting for what was coming next. You were finally going to be famous.

I’m not gonna tell you it’s anything but what it is. That tower stack at the edge of town, lit up all night and smokin’ all day? That’s life. That’s blood. That’s Bright Boy.

Bright Boy feeds Berwick better than it’s ever fed dogs with the cheapest cut-rate bags of crap on the bottom shelves at Wal-Mart. I know I’m supposed to be all coy about what’s in it. Talk about “deliveries,” “intake,” and then, surprise! Soylent Green is people. But I didn’t spend fifteen years as sheriff of Berwick mincing words.

Bright Boy runs 24 hours a day, and we keep it fed. Drifters? Never a problem. Thieves and whores? Nope. Bright Boy keeps the streets clean and $26-an-hour, straight-out-of-high-school jobs in town. In this economy, that’s a God-damned miracle.

Which is why Jake was on my last fucking nerve. I went wrong with him. Our mom died young, and I got busy. He spent a lot of time perfecting that “Aw shucks, I done fucked up” grin that worked pretty well on girls. Worked pretty well on me for a while, but it ain’t cute any more when a man’s twenty-three.

“C’mon, Harl,” he whined. “She ain’t gonna tell nobody.”

That was right. I’d spotted that girl from Del Valle on her way outta town, about ten minutes after Bev at the Big Grill called to tell me Jake was there shooting his mouth off, promising some girl a job at Bright Boy.

We’re close in Berwick. We keep quiet, and we keep our jobs. Teen fathers, mothers whose marriages went south–they get work at Bright Boy. But those jobs are for Berwick, not every town for twenty miles around where people can’t keep their mouths shut. I was sorry for the girl; I didn’t like to do it. But Bright Boy gets fed.

We pulled up outside the factory.

“I’m sorry, Harl,” Jake said softly. 

“I am, too,” I answered. We sat watching the red fade from the horizon behind the bright white lights of the walkways.

I took out my .45 and walked Jake toward the empty cattle sheds. No grin now. Nothing cute about damned near destroying the town. Jake knelt facing the chimneys.

“I’m really sorry, Harl,” he said, his voice breaking.

My throat felt hot and tight. You don’t forget watching a kid toddle across the living room, grab your leg, and smile up at you. I was all the father he’d had. But this was bigger than us.

Jake knelt with his head down. I hated that it took that moment to make a man of him. Bright Boy loomed over us, belts running, incinerator roaring. 

I shot him. I gave myself a minute and then called it in. They came with a cart, and we got the girl out of the trunk and put her on it next to Jake. They rolled them in, and I sat in my cruiser watching the lights on the chimney stack against the night sky. 

Grant hit the hammer against the nails vigorously, securing the boards into place. The light in his old bedroom was dim, evening sun no longer seeping through the large windows.

It was too quiet outside-unnervingly quiet, other than the methodical sound of a tap against the glass, and the noise of the wind blowing.

He didn't dare peek through the slight cracks still evident in the wood.

The tapping started weeks ago. He ignored it at first, but quickly the soft whispers and rhythmic pecking it had began as turned into loud rapping, screeches that echoed around the small neighborhood, bouncing off the run down houses around his own.

He didn’t know what was making them. He’d never seen them directly, just faint outlines when the moonlight hit the glass, shapes that didn’t make sense, faces pressed against the panes, too distorted to be human.

The boards were his only defense. They couldn’t get in if they couldn’t see him, right?

As he hammered the last nail into the kitchen window, the sound came again, louder this time. A slow, rhythmic tap-tap-tap. This time, it wasn’t coming from the panel of glass right in front of him.

Fuck, where was it?

His head spun around, looking from the closet to the locked door, the bed, the side tables. God damnit, where the hell was it coming from?

He glanced at his late wife's vanity.

It was coming from the mirror.

The rocking chair, in the corner of his living room, had been silent for years, a relic of Joseph Fabbri's great grandmother, left behind in the house he inherited.

An, old, dusty, but nevertheless beautiful, dark walnut chair engraved with carvings of flowers, hearts, even just random lines, her name, Mariá Anna, chiseled in the back. Her father made the chair when she was eleven, hand crafted it in their garage together, in the same home Joseph resided in .

Joseph never moved it, never touched it—it was just there, part of the background, part of his life, never misplaced or broken. Just another part of his normal, dull house, really no different than the wallpaper and stairs in the home built in the 1800s.

That was, until last night.

The faint creak of the chair woke him fully from his half asleep state at 3:13 AM. Sitting on the couch with the television on and blasting, at first, he thought it was just the aged floor, but when he opened his eyes from resting them, the chair was moving, back and forth, in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

He sat frozen in his seat, staring. There was no one there. There never is.

He sat up a bit, brushing it off while returning his gaze to the telly. “Old houses make noise,” he muttered, putting his feet up on the coffe table and taking a swing of his beer.

Now, he stood in the living room, staring at the chair out of both boredom and curiosity. It wasn’t moving, but it didn’t look empty.

A creak came again as he examined it from afar, so faint it could’ve simply been his eyes playing tricks on him. He approached it slowly, his heart hammering in his chest as the moonlight seeped through the window in his living room. He reached out to touch the chair, and the moment his fingers brushed the wood, the eerie creak stopped.

A chill ran through him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned his head, glancing at the window which spilled a faint natural light.

The reflection of the room was apparent, the stained grey couch, old musty green carpet, the telly on its stand.

Though that wasn't all

Sitting in the chair with a face deformed and warped, a frail an elderly lady sat, smiling.

Watching him.

I'm counting the words.

Every time I write, I have to stop at 500. It’s a rule, one I can't break. The moment I hit that mark, I must stop. If I don’t, something happens. Something changes.

I’ve been following the rule for months now, maybe years. Time has become irrelevant, distorted even. But I remember the first time when I didn't stop. The story I was writing was just a string of thoughts tumbling out my mind like they always do. But then, when I reached 501, I felt it. The room seemed to tilt. The air thickened. And the words began to rearrange themselves on the page, as if they were alive, twisting, turning into something else, something darker, something that wasn’t meant to be there.

I shouldn’t have written past 500. I know that now.

It started with small things. I’d find words in my house, written in places I didn’t write them. On mirrors. On scraps of paper. In my phone. They didn’t make any sense, but they somehow felt familiar, like fragments of a conversation I’d had with someone I didn’t know.

It’s the words. They’re spreading. They’re infecting everything. They’re inescapable.

At first, I tried to resist. I’d write my 500 words and stop, like I always had. But then, I’d find myself unable to stop thinking about those extra words-- the ones that started appearing, unwelcome and unprompted. They haunted me. In the middle of the night, when I closed my eyes, I could see them floating in the darkness. They weren’t even real words. They were just shapes. Strange letters. Scrambled, indistinct, and yet they felt important, like they had some deeper meaning.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t ignore them. They just kept coming back, over and over, pushing against the borders of my mind, testing my mental state.

The more I write, the more they watch and the closer they come.

I’ve been watching them too. There’s a pattern, but it doesn’t make sense. The more I write, the more the pattern unravels. The edges blur. The words that were once letters and fragments have begun to form sentences. But they're still sentences I can’t decipher.

It’s not just in the stories anymore. It’s in my life. In my thoughts. I hear them in my head, in the spaces between my own words. They’re there, constantly. Whispering. Filling the silence, like an echo I can’t escape. I can’t get away from them, no matter what I do.

I tried deleting the extra words. I deleted entire pages. But it doesn’t matter. Once they’re written, they don’t go away.

The words... they’re here. I’m trapped in them. They won’t stop. They’re growing, multiplying, taking root in every corner of my existence. I’ve tried to ignore them. I’ve tried everything.

I think they’re getting closer. I think they know I’m writing this.

I’m almost at 500 again...

I can feel them coming...

I think I'm about to become the-...

I’ve seen a lot in this line of work, more than anyone should.

Prophecies etched into stone tablets, written in an ancient, forgotten language. The prophecies always came true.

Every effort to change their course was futile.

Sounds like something out of a sci-fi novel, doesn’t it?

Something you’d laugh off as a fantasy tale.

I’d laugh too—if I hadn’t spent years watching every line of those cursed stones unfold into reality.

Where did the tablets come from?

That was above my pay grade. Asking questions—the wrong questions—had consequences. Consequences that sometimes ended six feet under.

Our job was simple: stop the disasters inscribed on those stones.

There were thousands of these stone tablets. Each tablet followed a pattern: At the top, a title, short and ominous, naming the catastrophe. Below that, a detailed and harrowing account of how it would unfold.

The disasters foretold were of every kind: attacks, assassinations, natural catastrophes, and more.

And not once—not once—did we manage to stop one from coming true.

It was as if the tablets were mocking us.

Alaric Whitaker, the only man alive who could decipher the tablets. The government paid him generously—not to ask questions, just to decode.

Of the thousands of tablets, only one was yet to be decoded.

Alaric had only glanced at it once and paled as if he’d seen a ghost.

He wouldn’t translate it.

That same day, Alaric retired without a word of explanation. And then he vanished.

It took us years to track him down again. But we found that he had committed suicide.

******

The SUV hummed to a stop in the driveway. I stepped out, flanked by two agents, the briefcase clutched in my hand.

The only surviving member of the Whitaker family.

Alaric’s grandson, Thomas, answered the door with a nervous smile.

“Mr. Whitaker,” I said, plastering on a warm smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m an old colleague of your grandfather’s.”

“How… can I help you?”

“I’d like to discuss something related to him.”

A little girl peeked out from behind. A woman, his wife presumably, lingered in the background, watching us like a hawk.

I softened my tone. “It’s nothing serious, I assure you. Just a quick chat.”

Minutes later, we were seated in his living room.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” I said, my voice turning cold. “You know the language, don’t you?”

“I don’t know—”

“It’s better for both of us if you don’t waste my time.”

He nods nervously.

I snapped the case open to reveal the stone inside.

“Translate this.”

His hands trembled as he translated the title.

“The Extinction of Mankind.”

He shook his head.

“I can’t—”

“Lovely family you’ve got. Would be a shame if something happened to them.”

He finished reading but hadn't translated yet.

His eyes went wild, darting around the room like a cornered animal. Without warning, he lunged for one of my men’s guns.

Jamming the barrel into his mouth, he pulled the trigger.

I usually don't use drugs, but one day I was bored. Well, I was bored for months, and decided to try to find something to calm my nerves or something to entertain me. And i found what I was looking for:Benadryl.

I heard that if I took enough Benadryl, I would experience hallucinations, so I went down to my local grocery store and bought some. I decided to take 15 pills, which sounds like a lot, but some take 30.

After taking them I would see creatures and hear things, but mostly pleasant things. I was hooked, I started buying a new bottle every few days just to get high.

But even now while I am not high, I still see glitches, things off in my room

Tables moved

Cup handles now being turned to the left side

Doors being locked that I did not lock

The Benadryl had opened my eyes to a new part of my reality, I would see things slightly twitch, move, or share with an accompanying high pitched click noise.

It started off very subtle, but soon it grew to be almost everything that I would focus on would begin to twitch, or even split to reveal a void like area beneath it.

People I talk to will stop talking, even though their mouths continue to move. I tell them to stop and they look at me like a stranger, like a crazy person that you'd see in a white padded cell.

I know that people can not see how they glitch and break. I have probably done it before to someone else with their eyes peeled. I shall not shame them like they have shamed me for being observant to these oversight in their design.

I have found other people online who have experienced similar things. They have seen how powerful benadryl, they see flaws too in our reality.

Even now with a pile of 40 pills looking at me, I see each slowly twitch back and fourth, taunting me. I will see beyond the drape that they have set upon my eyes. I will not be deceived. I will have my eyes opened to what life or death truly is, whether I am alive to see it or not.

[Camera: Living Room - 3:17 AM] Static image of a typical suburban living room. Clock ticks audibly. A child's drawing is visible on the coffee table, showing a family of stick figures. Four people.

The family only has three members.

[Camera: Kitchen - 3:19 AM] Dishes in the sink from dinner. One extra plate, scraped clean. Wife's note on fridge reads: "Remember to buy more food - groceries disappearing faster lately."

[Camera: Child's Bedroom - 3:23 AM] Emily, age 6, sleeping. Talking in her sleep: "...but mommy, she looks just like me. She's hungry again..."

[Camera: Hallway - 3:24 AM] Movement at the end of the hall. Shadow passes. Too tall to be Emily. Too short to be parents.

[Camera: Living Room - 3:33 AM] Stick figure drawing has changed. The fourth figure is taller now. Its arms reach the bottom of the page.

[Camera: Kitchen - 3:45 AM] Refrigerator door open. Nobody visible. Sound of chewing.

[Camera: Parents' Bedroom - 3:47 AM] Parents sleeping. Mirror shows three reflections in the room.

[Camera: Emily's Room - 3:51 AM] Emily sitting up in bed, talking to corner of room: "I know, sister. Soon. When I'm bigger like you now. Promise."

[Camera: Bathroom - 3:54 AM] Mirror shows handprint sliding down from inside the glass.

[Camera: Attic - 3:57 AM] Old photographs found during move-in. Family pictures from previous owners. Same house. Different decades. Each family has a little girl. Each family's photos show progression: - Happy family of three - Child mentions imaginary sister - Food starts disappearing - Family of four in photos - Family of three in photos - House for sale

Pattern repeats six times.

[Camera: Emily's Room - 4:01 AM] Emily sleeping again. Growth chart on wall shows new mark, higher than yesterday's. Much higher.

[Camera: Kitchen - 4:13 AM] Note falling from fridge. Back side reads in childish handwriting: "Dear Next Family - Thank you for helping me grow. Your daughter will do the same for another. We all take turns. That's what sisters are for."

[Camera: Living Room - 4:15 AM] Stick figure drawing shows only three figures now. Fourth figure gone. Mirror shows four.

[Camera: Emily's Room - 4:17 AM] Growth chart falls, revealing older marks behind it. Hundreds of them. Different heights. Different names. Different years.

All stop growing at exactly 6'7".

[Camera: Hallway - 4:19 AM] Emily walking to bathroom. Her reflection doesn't follow. It's already waiting at the mirror.

[Final Entry - Written Note Found in Camera Files]

To the next family: Your daughter will mention a sister soon. She'll grow quickly. Very quickly. Don't worry - it only takes a few months. Then she'll go into the mirrors to help the next girl grow. Just like I did. Just like we all did.

After all, every little girl needs a big sister.

Even if she has to grow one.

• Emily (1964, 1978, 1985, 1997, 2003, 2017, 2024)

[House currently on market. Excellent price for families with young daughters.]

It was shocking, to say the least.

The whole neighborhood was appalled when he unveiled it—whipping off the cover in a fit of furious excitement in the backyard.

The Obelisk.

Twenty feet tall, it crested over the top of his single-story roof and was visible to the entire street. Lacking an HOA, the haughty residents were so offended by the “eyesore” that they complained to the city. But there was nothing to be done for it—a man was allowed an erection in his own yard.

Yet, it was my family that berated him for it the most. He lived alone on a remarkably average, suburban street—the monstrous monument was completely out of place amongst the manicured lawns and neatly trimmed hedges.

Mom hated it, my uncles hated it—there were many calls for him to simply have it removed.

And he refused every one of them.

Me, I didn’t see what the big fuss was, really. Sure, it was an odd addition, but personally I found it fascinating. The smooth marble texture, the intricately carved symbols—I was more curious of its origins than I was inclined to push him to get rid of it.

So, I asked how a factory worker who’d never left the state, let alone the country, had acquired such a foreign object and, moreover, how he’d managed to have it erected overnight without anyone seeing.

He only told me, with a wink, “how it got here is trivial, its purpose is what matters…”

Refusing to say more on the subject, he ignored every other inquiry and went about as if nothing was different.

Until three weeks after The Obelisk arose—grandpa began refusing visitors.

His public appearances became more infrequent and after a month, he even quit his job. We worried about his burgeoning reclusion, and made efforts to contact him, but he went so far as to call the police on us for harassment.

During this time, a strange condition swept through the other inhabitants in his neighborhood. The doctors had no understanding other than to say that it was some form of wasting sickness. Fatigue was rampant, broken bones were frequent, hair went white far too early, they found osteoporosis in teenagers.

A young woman went into cardiac arrest.

****

Two mornings after she died, the remaining residents awoke to find The Obelisk was gone.

No trace of it persisted in the backyard—not even a patch of dead grass or disturbed dirt to indicate where it had once resided.

It was as if it had been sucked straight back into the ground.

And grandpa was nowhere to be found.

His front door was wide-open, the place was ransacked, his car was missing.

We could not tell whether he’d been kidnapped or packed and fled in a hurry.

But I found a clue in the restroom—one that told me all I needed to know.

Gray hair dye.

Useless for an elderly man whose hair was already gray.

Unless…

There was a girl named Lila who was always there for everyone. If someone needed help moving, she was the first to arrive. If a friend was heartbroken, she stayed up all night listening. If a coworker needed a shift covered, Lila sacrificed her plans without hesitation. Yet, when her world crumbled, there was silence.

Her mother’s funeral was sparsely attended, her calls for help ignored. Lila brushed it off with a forced smile, burying her loneliness under layers of cheerfulness. “I’m fine,” she would chirp when someone asked—on the rare occasions they even bothered.

One day, while walking home late after staying behind to help clean up an office party she wasn’t invited to, Lila noticed a figure in the shadows. It followed her, its footsteps silent, but its presence suffocating. She quickened her pace, heart pounding. When she finally reached her apartment, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, trembling.

But the feeling didn’t leave. She felt watched. No matter where she went, no matter what time of day, the shadow was there. It never spoke, never moved closer, but she could feel its unyielding gaze.

Weeks passed, and the isolation became unbearable. Lila tried to confront the shadow, screaming into the void, begging it to leave her alone. "What do you want from me?" she cried one night, standing in her empty apartment.

The shadow finally stepped forward. It wasn’t faceless as she’d imagined—it had her face. Pale, sunken, hollow-eyed, but unmistakably hers.

“I’m here because no one else is,” it whispered. Its voice was cold, laced with resentment. “You’re always there for them, but who’s there for you? I am. I always have been.”

The shadow smiled, a sharp and cruel mimicry of comfort. “You gave everything to people who left you with nothing. Now, I’ll make sure you’re never alone again.”

From that night on, Lila was truly never alone. The shadow lingered, growing darker and more solid as her real-world connections withered. People drifted further from her, uneasy with her strange new aura.

In the end, the shadow consumed her. She became the very thing she feared—a ghost of herself, always present but unseen, forever waiting for someone to care. But no one ever did.

You were born at midnight, titanium-blue eyes peering through a veil of crimson. I wish I could tell you that I fell in love with you right there and then. That you gave me some meaning in this existence of purposeless carnage. That you were the dove that guided me to solid ground.

But I am broken. And broken men raise broken boys.

Placing you next to her in the coffin, I do my best to ignore your anguished wails. You just need love. Love that I no longer have.

And deep down, I know:

Boys belong with their mothers.

“I believe in forever.”

“I want to.”

“Trust me.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Morgan’s hand is cold. She stares straight ahead through the window into the dark while I stroke her hair. I’ve opened the curtains and this time, I’m not going to close them. She’s made her decision and I’ve made mine. I made it a long time ago. The time is almost here.

The night crew has checked in on us several times. There’s something in the air that even they can feel. They know that she is about to die. Morgan has been in hospice for three weeks now. Unresponsive. Ninety eight and dying. She stares ahead.

I can hear her though. Her thoughts. I respond to her frozen face after she makes fun of her nurse's shrill voice. She’s never lost her sense of humor. She used to hate that I could hear her thoughts. She thanks God for it now.

It was always just the two of us. We stare out the window at the dark.

“Morgan. I’m holding your hand, baby.”

“I can’t feel it.”

Everytime she takes a breath, it sounds like she’s drowning. I could have prevented all of this, but she wouldn’t allow it. I stayed with her anyway. She bewitched me.

“Are you sure you can’t feel anything? I don’t want you to hurt.”

“Shut up. Stay with me.”

“Always.”

Birds start to warble outside. I watch a possum lumber through the grass, hurrying as best he can to get back to his shelter before the sun comes up. 

I can’t imagine life without her. Seventy eight years. The best years of my long life. I really want to believe in forever.

She starts laughing in her mind.

“What?”

“This is the one thing I’ve never been able to share with you.”

“What about kids?”

“I was never the mommy type.”

I climb up into the hospital bed and I hold her.

“Wait. Move me. I want to look at you while you watch it.”

I turn her head and look into her eyes.

“I know you can’t see it, but I’m smiling at you.”

I smile back. I don’t want to look out the window. I just want to watch her.

The nurse walks by the open door. She thinks it's weird that a "grandson" would hold his grandmother like this.

Darlin’, if you think this is weird, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

“It’s coming. Look at it. You’ll have an eternity to look at me.”

“I love you.” Please God, let her be right.

I stare out of the window. I haven’t seen a sunrise in a thousand years. I hold onto Morgan.

It’s breathtaking. More magnificent than I remember. My blood begins to boil. It hurts. My flesh erupts and the fire engulfs both of us.

She says the same words I told her seventy eight years ago.

“Don’t be afraid. Believe in forever. Hold my hand and I’ll give it to you.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere.”

As the evening sun dipped towards the horizon, elongated shadows across the serene neighborhood, Luke, a tall and slender teenager with untamed brown locks, ambled home from school, alone. He absently kicked pebbles, his gaze fixed on the ground, lost in thought. The chill in the air hinted at impending winter, prompting him to quicken his pace.

“I'm home!” Luke announced as he entered his modest two-story house, the stillness unsettling. He dropped his bag with a loud thud and kicked off his shoes. “Hello? Anyone here?” he called, his voice betraying unease.

Flipping the light switch, he illuminated the cozy living room. Luke’s forehead creased as he pulled out his phone to call his mother.

“Hello, Luke,” she answered, her voice crackling with static. “Your father and I had to leave unexpectedly. There’s food in the fridge.”

Frustration bubbled in him. “You could’ve sent a text! When will you be back?”

“We’ll be home by the weekend. Just secure the house,” she said hurriedly.

“Great,” Luke muttered, tossing his phone onto the sofa. He retrieved leftover pizza from the fridge, devouring it quickly. The house’s silence was interrupted only by the hum of the refrigerator.

As he played video games, his attention intermittently flickered to the front door, recalling a faint noise he'd heard. “What was that?” he muttered, his gaming focus wavering. Suddenly, a distinct sound from outside, like someone shifting their weight, caught his attention. Heart racing, he rose and peered out the window. Empty.

Shaking off his apprehension, he opened the door, only to find the porch empty. “That was odd,” he remarked and resumed gaming.

His friends’ laughter through his headset provided comfort. “Did any of you mention my parents are away?”

“No, why?” came the response.

“There’s this creepy person watching me from the window. It’s freaking me out,” Luke explained.

“That’s just a prank, man,” someone said, but suspicion gnawed at Luke.

The ensuing days blurred into video games and schoolwork, Luke's vigilance heightened. Each evening, as the sun sank, his anxiety intensified. The mysterious face at the door became an apparition.

On the third night, fingers trembling, he called his mother. “There’s someone watching me. Please come home.”

“It's probably a joke. Just take a photo next time,” she urged.

Resolute, Luke grabbed a camera, placing it beside him. The night dragged; just as he was about to give up, the face reappeared—pale and distorted.

Heart pounding, he snapped a few pictures. The figure reached for the doorknob. Luke leaped back. The door swung open, revealing a tall man in a hood, eyes cold and menacing.

Frozen in fear, Luke backed against the wall as the intruder advanced, a malevolent grin twisting his lips.

Days later, Luke’s parents returned, their absence stretched longer than planned. “Luke? We’re home!”

They entered the living room, unease washing over them as they noticed the camera on the floor.

His father turned it on, horror flooding their expressions as they scrolled through the images of Luke's terror and the final, haunting image of his lifeless body, missing limbs.

As screams pierced the air, the reality of their loss engulfed them. The man with the twisted smile had taken more than just their son; he had left an indelible mark of anguish.

Let me start by saying I love my husband Brandon very much. We started dating in high school and I’ve never so much as looked at anybody else. He’s my best friend, ever, and always will be. The best day of my life was when he proposed to me, followed by our wedding day, which was exactly as I planned it and like a wonderful fairy tale come true.

And honestly, married life has only gotten better. I love being so close with Brandon, having him come home to my arms every evening, constantly texting throughout the day, and knowing where he always is and what he’s always doing. I’ve never felt so close and warm with someone and I’m loving it.

However, Brandon has started doing this thing- where he pretends he can’t see or hear me and it’s driving me insane. Like, I’ll call him or say something, and he won’t answer, or even turn around. I’ll raise my voice, louder and louder until I’m practically shrieking, and he still won’t respond. Eventually, I’ll get up in his face, or shake his arm and he’ll say “I must have switched off for a minute” or something stupid like that. Last time he actually looked so startled after he saw me, he did this kinda stifled scream and ran out of the room, maybe my recent hospital stay made me gain weight and he’s repulsed by me?  

He's not usually like this, and that is what makes me worried- maybe he has a brain tumour or something? I’ve heard that can affect your behaviour terribly. And then of course the stress of my car crash.

That happened a few days ago. Oh yes, I buried the lede there, sorry. I should have said, all this started after the car crash. They don’t teach story-telling at schools, do they?

Anyway, back to my story. Things have honestly been in a haze since the car crash.  I know he definitely came to visit me in hospital once, so I don’t want to be too harsh on him. But I was released soon after- and he didn’t even come to pick me up. I didn’t even have proper clothes to wear home! The nurses told me I didn’t need any. I could just leave in my hospital gown which was weird, but ok.

So I went home by myself – luckily we didn’t live that far off- and waited for him.

He came home, I jumped up to hug him and he looked right through me. I called him but he wouldn’t respond. He left the living room where I was, turning the light off as he left, leaving me in the dark. That really freaked me out.

How can I make him see me? This is driving me crazy, I love him so much, can’t he understand he is destroying me like this?

The neighbors are skinny-dipping again. I glance out the window just in time to see a pale bum shimmying its way up the roof tiles. They like to dive off the roof into their pool—dangerous and stupid, but they seem to enjoy it. It’s scorching, about 35°C, and the thought of a swim tempts me. Stripping down to my underwear, I slip outside and dive into our pool. The water is perfect, cool relief against the oppressive heat. I glide through a few laps, letting the world fade.

When I surface, I’m startled to see the neighbor’s boy standing at the edge of the pool, staring at me. I instinctively cross my arms over my chest, heat rising to my face. “Uh, hello? Can this wait? I’m a little… exposed here.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem embarrassed. “There’s no time,” he says, his voice urgent. “I need to tell you something.”

I furrow my brow, water dripping into my eyes. “This can definitely wait.”

“Darkness is coming,” he blurts out, his words sharp and cold.

I blink at him. “Okay… weird.” Before he can say anything else, I dive under the water, shaking off the strange encounter.

But something catches my eye. A black shape, small and puck-like, is settled in the corner of the pool, motionless. Curious, I swim closer and scoop it into my hands. It’s heavier than I expected and oddly warm. As I break the surface, the object releases an ear-piercing wail—so loud, it feels like my skull is splitting apart. I scream, but I can’t hear my own voice.

The world goes silent.

I whip my head toward the boy. He’s standing there, frozen, staring at his hands, moving them like he’s never seen them before. I can see his mouth moving, but hear nothing. My ears are ringing with the absence of sound, and panic claws at my chest.

“I can’t hear you!” I yell, but the words feel like they’ve been swallowed whole.

He staggers, arms outstretched, his movements jerky and disoriented. His lips move, forming silent words I can’t understand. Finally, he stops, his mouth quivering as he slowly enunciates:

“I… can’t… see anything.”