Ethan woke up to the dull hum of the ceiling fan, its rhythmic creak blending into the silence of the early morning. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he pushed himself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. The cold water splashed against his face, jolting him awake. As he reached for the towel, his gaze flickered to the mirror— and his breath caught. For a split second, his reflection lagged behind. Just a fraction of a delay, but enough to send a chill down his spine. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head. Just my imagination. He turned off the tap and walked away. Behind him, the mirror remained unchanged. Or at least, it should have. As usual, Ethan sat at the dining table with his family for breakfast. Plates clinked, voices overlapped in cheerful chatter, and laughter rippled through the room. Conversations flowed effortlessly—but not with him. No one asked him how he slept. No one passed him the toast. No one even glanced his way. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. His presence felt like a shadow on the wall—there, yet unseen. His fingers curled around the edge of the table. Why does this feel so... wrong? He cleared his throat, hoping to break into the conversation. No one reacted. For a fleeting second, a horrifying thought crept in.
Am I even here?
Ethan pushed away the uneasy feeling and went on with his day. No point in overthinking, he told himself. Back in his room, he grabbed his sketchbook, letting the pencil glide across the page. Sketching always calmed him, a welcome escape from reality. His hand moved instinctively, lines forming shapes—until his eyelids grew heavy. The pencil remained in his grasp, moving even as sleep claimed him. Then came the dream. A cold, suffocating darkness wrapped around him. A whisper slithered through the void—distant, yet alarmingly close.
"Ethan..."
The voice was neither familiar nor entirely foreign. A shadow loomed in the distance, shifting, watching. As it moved, something about it felt... wrong. Distorted. Inhuman. His breath hitched. The shadow lunged. Ethan jolted awake, heart hammering in his chest. His room was silent except for his ragged breathing. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, shaking his head. Just a dream. Just a stupid dream. Without looking at his sketchbook, he instinctively closed it and shoved it aside. He didn't even realize that his fingers were still smudged with graphite—nor did he see what he had unknowingly drawn. Shoving the lingering unease away, he stood up and left the room.