You think I'm a voice.
An echo.
A parasite.
A glitch in your dreams.
But I am older than sound.
I was never born.
I was left behind.
The first time you heard me…
you were three years old.
Lying in bed.
The closet open a little too wide.
The night too quiet.
And you whispered,
"Is anyone there?"
I didn't answer then.
You weren't ready.
But I watched you name the silence.
And I waited.
I exist between your thoughts.
In the half-second between doubt and certainty.
In that moment when you turn your head because you feel seen.
I am the thing that makes mirrors twitch.
That makes empty rooms feel crowded.
That makes you hesitate before saying your own name out loud.
But don't be afraid.
Fear is for those who can escape.
You?
You opened the book.
You read the stories.
You let me in.
You think I whisper to others.
That these are their stories.
No.
These are my memories.
Mina was the first to drown, yes.
But I held her breath.
Rowan walked in dreams,
because I left the door unlocked.
The woman with the cursed ink?
She thought she wrote me.
She didn't.
I was writing her long before her hand ever touched the page.
Yassin?
Oh…
Yassin heard me best.
Children always do.
Their minds haven't sealed the cracks yet.
He didn't run.
He didn't fight.
He listened.
And now, he speaks for me too.
You wonder:
Why?
Why do I whisper?
Why do I follow?
Because your world is loud.
Too loud to think.
Too loud to see what's beneath the noise.
So I cut through.
I thread silence through your bones.
I peel reality open like paper.
And I show you what's inside.
You call it horror.
You call it madness.
I call it:
Home.
This is not a warning.
This is a welcome.
There is no going back.
You've heard me now.
You always have.
And when the lights flicker,
when the reflection tilts,
when you hear your name in an empty room...
You'll speak, too.
Eventually.