Ethan didn’t pick it up at first.

  The note y in the middle of his apartment floor like it had always been there. Thin, white paper. One line of text.

  You’re in my dream. Wake up.

  He stood over it for a long time, heart racing, mind spinning.

  Had someone broken in? Was this part of a prank? A mental breakdown?

  He picked it up. The paper felt real—slightly rough, cool from the tile. The text was typed, not handwritten. No signature. No expnation.

  The clock on the wall read 10:44 a.m. He stared at it for a while.

  It didn’t change.

  Seconds passed—he counted twenty-seven—before the minute hand finally ticked.

  Time was gging.

  He opened the window for air. Same street. Same cars. But everything looked more… fttened. Like a backdrop in a py.

  Ethan grabbed his phone. Dyn still hadn’t replied.

  He called.

  No dial tone.

  Just a sound—like wind, but low, distorted. Almost mechanical.

  He hung up.

  Back at the kitchen counter, he picked up the note again. Flipped it over.

  Nothing on the back.

  But this time, the front had changed.

  You’re not Ethan. Not really.

  He staggered back, knocking over a chair. The paper drifted gently to the floor, silent and innocent.

  He tore through the apartment. Checked the doors, the windows. Nothing disturbed. No sign of entry.

  Except for one thing.

  His mirror was gone.

  The entire frame had vanished from the wall.

  In its pce, bare drywall. No holes, no dust outline. Like it had never been there.

  He ran to the bathroom.

  The mirror there worked—mostly.

  His reflection blinked a second te again. And this time… it smiled before he did.

  Just slightly.

  He stumbled out of the bathroom and reached for his coat. He had to get out. Get fresh air. Get answers.

  But the front door wouldn’t open.

  He twisted the knob. Pulled. Smmed his shoulder into it.

  Nothing.

  He looked through the peephole.

  Darkness.

  No hallway. No door. Just… bck.

  He backed away slowly.

  A new sound: paper rustling.

  He turned.

  Another note on the kitchen counter.

  Don’t look for him. He’s trying to remember too.

  “Him… who?” Ethan whispered.

  The wall clock ticked backward.

  He stared at it, then back at the paper. But it was bnk again.

  He grabbed his phone. Opened the browser. Typed in his name—Ethan Hale.

  No results found.

  He tried his email. Password invalid. Recovery options gone.

  He searched “obituary.” No article.

  Nothing.

  It was like he’d never existed.

  Then—three knocks at the door.

  Slow. Deliberate.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  A voice from the other side:

  “Ethan, are you awake yet?”

  He didn’t respond.

  The voice came again, deeper this time.

  “Or should I say… when did you fall asleep?”

  He took a slow step back. The air in the room thickened.

  Another note slid under the door.

  He picked it up with shaking hands.

  Look in the mirror. Not at it.

  He turned slowly toward the bathroom.

  The door was already open.

  His reflection was waiting.

  And this time, it wasn’t copying him.

  It was waving.