Morning came sluggishly. The clouds hung low over Duskmoor, heavy and pale like a smothered breath. Rain drizzled steadily, painting the windows with streaks of gray. The city, like Elias, seemed to wake reluctantly — as if it too had seen something it couldn't forget.
He stood in the bathroom, staring into the mirror. The condensation had long since faded, wiped away by a trembling hand. But the message burned behind his eyes all the same:
"We're not alone anymore."
He didn't remember writing it. Couldn't even begin to imagine when it appeared. But deep down, in some quiet, wordless place inside him, a part of him didn't question it either. That was what scared him most.
His face in the mirror looked wrong this morning. Not monstrous. Not distorted. Just… off. Tired in ways that went beyond sleep. Eyes that looked like they'd watched something crawl out from the dark — and let it in.
After a cold shower and a bitter cup of coffee that did little to ground him, Elias slipped into his coat and stepped into the rain. The streets were slick, veins of water winding between cobblestones, neon lights bleeding into puddles like open wounds.
He didn't call ahead. He didn't need to. Something in him had already decided he'd be going back to Vale. For answers. Or maybe for proof that there were no answers left.
---
The waiting room at the hospital was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the clinical kind of quiet, but the suffocating kind. Like the walls were holding their breath. The receptionist — a slight woman with round glasses and anxious fingers — looked up, gave him a polite nod, and returned to her screen without a word.
Elias didn't wait for permission. He knew the way.
Vale's door was open.
Inside, the psychiatrist stood by the window, his back turned, watching the rain bead and crawl down the glass like nervous sweat. His silhouette was still, but Elias noticed the tension in his shoulders.
"You came," Vale said without turning.
"I need to know more about the file," Elias said, voice tight. "The handwriting. The notes. Are they really mine?"
Vale turned to face him, arms folded. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes had shifted — less clinical now, more… cautious.
"That's what we're trying to determine."
Elias stepped forward, unable to keep still. "You didn't call me here just to talk about handwriting."
A pause.
Then Vale moved to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. From within, he retrieved a small black cassette recorder. Old. Dusty.
"I found this in the sealed archives of St. Aurum's. The psychiatric facility you stayed in, briefly, when you were seventeen."
Elias blinked. "I don't remember—"
Vale held up a hand. "Neither did I. This session wasn't logged with the others. I only learned of it recently. Someone sent me a package. No return address. Just this tape... and a note."
He slid the note across the desk.
Scrawled in jagged charcoal letters:
> "He's waking up again."
The chill that passed through Elias felt like it had teeth. "Play it."
Vale nodded. He clicked the recorder.
The tape hissed softly at first — a low, grainy hum, like breath caught between dimensions — and then a voice crackled through the speaker. Younger. Uneven. Trembling.
> "He doesn't let me sleep. He talks when I close my eyes. He tells me what to do."
There was a pause. The sound of a pen scribbling something off-tape.
Then another voice — older, professional.
> "Who is he?"
> "He says I already know. But I'm not supposed to remember."
Another silence. Then, barely above a whisper:
> "Sometimes, when I look in the mirror… I see him instead."
Click.
The tape stopped.
Elias stared at the recorder, jaw clenched, veins thrumming with something he couldn't name.
"You don't remember saying any of that?" Vale asked gently.
"No," Elias said through gritted teeth. "I don't remember ever being recorded. I don't remember being there."
Vale watched him carefully. "That… might be the point."
---
Elias left the hospital with the past pressing on his shoulders like a weight too long carried. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to move. To breathe.
He ended up on St. Alder's Bridge, walking its rusted span in the rain. Below, the river ran black and wide, its surface broken by raindrops and city runoff, the current steady and slow — like a deep breath drawn under pressure.
He paused at the railing. Looked down.
His reflection stared back from the rippling water — warped, fractured by the movement of the river. But something in it felt... wrong.
It was still.
Until it smiled.
Elias stumbled back from the edge, heart hammering in his chest.
There was no one else on the bridge.
Just him.
And that impossible grin.
---
That night, Elias couldn't sleep.
The whispers started around two.
Not words — not exactly. More like fragments of thoughts, drifting just below understanding. Some were his. Others felt borrowed. Invasive.
He sat up in bed, staring at the darkness. There was no light, no sound but the ticking of the old wall clock and the rain against the glass.
Then, at exactly 3:03 AM, a noise echoed from the living room.
Scratch.
Slow. Deliberate. A dragging scrape across wood.
Elias's breath caught. Not the wind. Not a rat. This was human.
He moved quietly, bare feet soft against the cold floor, and pulled open the kitchen drawer. His fingers wrapped around the flashlight handle. He flicked it on.
The scratching stopped.
He stepped into the living room. Everything looked exactly the same.
Until he turned.
The mirror in the hallway — an old standing frame near the entrance — was cracked.
A single line ran diagonally across it, thin but deep. Like a scalpel had kissed the glass. Underneath, drawn in faint charcoal strokes:
> "Not all fractures bleed."
The words were smeared slightly, as if someone had written them with the side of their hand. Fresh.
Elias stepped closer, heart in his throat.
He whispered, "Who are you?"
The reflection looked back.
His reflection.
And then — just for a heartbeat — it moved.
The real Elias stood frozen.
The one in the mirror smiled.
And didn't stop.
---