The morning feels cleaner. The rain is gone — replaced by faint sunlight cutting through his curtains.
Ethan lies in bed for a while, staring at the faint light slipping through the blinds. The air smells like wet stone and soap — like the world has been rinsed but not quite renewed. He tells himself last night was just exhaustion. The crying boy, the whispering walls, it had to be a dream layered over his own tired mind.
At least, that's what he wants to believe.
When he finally walks into the bookstore, the bell above the door rings softly. Mr. Abernathy is there this time, standing behind the counter, his eyes a little hollow but his voice steady.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he says with a faint smile.
Ethan forces a small laugh. "You could say that."
Mr. Abernathy slides a small brown-wrapped package across the counter. "Do me a favour, would ya ? Deliver this to the Bennets. They haven't come by in weeks. I'd go myself, but my knees aren't what they used to be."
"Sure," Ethan says, grateful for any reason to get out. "Could use the fresh air anyway."
Mr. Abernathy nods, his smile thin. "Good. Clear your head."
The drive is calm. Too calm. The city looks washed-out, like an unfinished painting. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, steady arcs, whispering against the glass. For once, the roads aren't crowded. Just Ethan, the hum of the engine, and the world pretending to be normal.
He pulls up to a small cream-coloured house with a trimmed hedge and flowers in neat little rows. The Bennets, an older couple — answer almost immediately, smiling warmly.
"Ethan! How sweet of you to come," Mrs. Bennet says, taking the package. "We're so sorry we didn't stop by the shop ourselves. We've decided to stay home and spend some quiet time together."
Ethan shrugs lightly. "Don't worry about it. Part of the service."
Mr. Bennet chuckles. "You're a good young man."
They wave, close the door softly, and for a second, all seems normal.
But as Ethan walks toward his car, the low hum of another engine breaks the silence.
He turns around.
The Bennets' car backs out of the driveway. Slowly. Calmly. They drive past him, smiling faintly as they go.
Ethan freezes.
"Didn't they just say they wanted to stay home?"
He frowns, watching the car until it disappears around the corner. Something prickles in his chest. He pulls out his phone.
The screen flickers.
Text appears — shaky, glitching like static.
"Do you remember?"
Then it vanishes.
Ethan's breath catches. The world feels thinner suddenly, like the sky itself just exhaled. The light dims for half a heartbeat. His reflection in the car window flickers — not out of sync, but delayed. And then he sees him. Across the street. The man from yesterday.
Dogger.
He's standing under a streetlight, half-shadowed, watching him with that same half-smile. And then, like a trigger pulled. He turns and runs.
"Hey! Wait!" Ethan shouts, throwing his phone into his pocket and bolting after him.
Dogger moves like he's not bound by gravity — vaulting fences, cutting through alleys, scaling rusted fire escapes like they're nothing. Ethan's lungs burn. His legs ache. But something keeps him running, not reason, not fear — a need.
The need to know.
The chase twists through the streets, until Dogger slows, stopping at the end of a narrow alley. Ethan thinks he's cornered him.
Dogger just stands there, hat tilted, rain dripping off the brim. He turns his head slightly, as if listening to something Ethan can't hear.
And then Ethan blinks once, and the world folds.
The alley stretches and shivers, the air bends, and suddenly—
He's in the bookstore.
The smell of wet pages, dust, and quiet air hits him like a memory. Dogger stands where he was, calm, collected, not even out of breath. He takes off his hat and glasses.
His eyes are wrong.
They're bright — glowing blue, animated almost, like light trapped in water. They don't look human.
Dogger reaches for a book on the counter, flips it open, the pages are blank.
"You've started seeing it too," he says quietly.
Ethan stumbles forward, breathing hard. "Seeing what? What are you talking about?"
Dogger's lips twitch into a smile — not mocking, not kind. Just knowing.
"You know… I have always wanted to meet you, Ethan."
He pauses. "I'd like to show you something."
The lights above flicker. The hum grows low, vibrating through the floorboards. Ethan's vision wavers like heat in the air. He blinks, and the shelves dissolve.
Machines beep softly. The walls are too white.
A woman's voice breaks through the static:
"Ethan… please wake up…"
His heart stops, his eyes opening large and fast, fixed in a stare of unhinged fear. He knows that voice.
A man stands beside her in a white coat, his face blurred like a censored dream. Ethan catches a single word, cutting through the distortion —
"Subject."
Ethan steps back, shaking. "No… no, this isn't real. Maybe I fell asleep in the car… or—"
He rubs his face, palms trembling, desperate to wake himself up.
The room flickers. A sound like shattering glass fills the air, and suddenly he's back in the bookstore again.
Dogger is there, but his expression is different now. Tense. Serious.
"They'll start noticing you soon," he says quietly. "You're not supposed to remember."
"Remember what?" Ethan blurts, his voice cracking.
Dogger's faint grin fades. "The waking world."
He looks up toward the flickering clock on the wall. The ticking skips, rewinds, skips again.
"Goodbye, Ethan," Dogger says softly. "We'll meet again… when time allows."
And before Ethan can move, Dogger's outline breaks apart, dissolving like static from a broken screen.
Outside, the rain returns. Gentle. Endless.
Ethan drives home in silence. The wipers move in rhythm with his heartbeat, swish, swish, swish. The reflection in the window matches him perfectly — every blink, every turn.
When he reaches his apartment, he lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling. His arms folded behind his head. His breathing finally slows.
The world feels quiet again.
Then he hears it — faint, distant.
A child crying.
The same
sob from his dream.
It fades into thunder, and Ethan whispers, half to himself:
"If this is a dream…"
"…then who's the one dreaming?"