I kept it. Still have it hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk.
Because part of me wanted proof that I wasn’t losing my mind.
That he was real.
He wanted me to know his name.
He wanted me to feel him, even when he wasn’t here.
And now…
Now he was.
My hands shake as I slide to the floor, pressing my back against the wall. My voice stays silent, but the ones in my head aren’t quiet any more.
“He was here.”
“He’s getting bolder.”
“You let this happen again.”
I dig my nails into my thighs until the sting grounds me. I don’t cry.
I won’t give him that.
But I know now—this isn’t a new story.
It’s a sequel to a nightmare I thought I’d burned to ash.
Only this time?
The monster left the window unlocked on purpose.
I press my palms to the floor.
It’s too cold. Or maybe I am.
The silence is loud again—buzzing like an old TV left on in the next room, a frequency only I can hear. My fingers dig into the floorboard seam by instinct. I breathe through my nose, slow, measured, like that’s going to keep the shaking away.
The wardrobe door’s still cracked.
I didn’t leave it like that.
My eyes lock on the edge of the sweater sleeve sticking out.
The one I haven’t worn in days.
My spine tightens. I stand slowly, knees stiff, and reach for it—fingertips grazing fabric—when a scent hits me that makes my throat close.
Smoke. Leather.
Him.
I yank the sweater back as if it’s bitten me. My arms stay frozen mid-air, sweater clutched in my hands like I’m waiting for it to explain itself.
It doesn’t.
I blink once. Twice.
