Morning arrived softly, as if the world itself was cautious not to disturb him.Phyo woke before the alarm, eyes open but unfocused, body still heavy with the remnants of a night that felt longer than it should. The ceiling above him was still gray, pale light filtering through the curtains, but there was something else — an echo from his dream that refused to leave.
He sat up slowly. His breath felt louder than usual. Somewhere between waking and remembering, he felt watched.
The apartment was quiet. The kind of silence that should've felt peaceful, but didn't.
He rubbed his temples and reached for the phone, instinctively checking the time, the notifications, the emails — the noise of the world that usually drowned the unease. But even the digital world seemed still this morning. No messages. No alerts. Nothing to anchor himself to.
He exhaled and leaned against the wall, eyes tracing the patterns of shadow. Was this what it felt like before something changed? He couldn't tell if the thought belonged to him or was something placed there — whispered in by that quiet, unseen current that seemed to pull at him every night.
The kettle hissed from the kitchen. He didn't remember turning it on.
His pulse quickened, but he moved anyway — calm on the outside, questions burning inside. When he reached the counter, the steam was already curling from the spout. The switch was down. The power light glowed faintly red.
He hadn't made tea in three days.
Phyo stood there for a long moment, staring at the kettle, then glanced at the reflection on the microwave door — a blurred version of himself standing still, uncertain if he was alone.
The rational part of his mind tried to explain it away — maybe I turned it on without noticing… sleep reflex, muscle memory…But deep down, something told him otherwise.
He poured the hot water, hand trembling slightly.When he brought the cup to his lips, the surface of the tea rippled — not from his hand, not from any breeze — as if something beneath the surface had moved.
That was when he heard it.A whisper. Faint, but distinct.A voice — his name — breathed from somewhere behind him.
"Phyo…"
He froze. Every sense sharpened.He turned slowly, scanning the room — empty. But the air carried a weight that hadn't been there before. He could feel it, like a vibration inside his chest.
The voice was neither male nor female, not loud, not human. It was like hearing thought made sound.
He took a cautious step backward, his back meeting the wall, and listened again. The silence returned, but not completely. Beneath it, something pulsed — not sound, not sight — more like presence.
Then it stopped. Just as suddenly as it came.
He stood still until his breathing slowed again, then looked around once more, methodically — checking corners, doors, even the hallway outside. Nothing unusual. No sign of intrusion.Only the faint smell of iron — sharp, metallic, fleeting — like the scent before rain.
He opened the window to clear the air. The street below was alive now — voices, footsteps, engines. The normal world creeping back in, reclaiming the edges of his mind.
He almost laughed. Almost.
But when he glanced down at the street, something made him pause.A figure — dressed in gray, face hidden by the shadow of a hood — was standing across the road, looking directly up at his window.
Phyo's breath caught.Their eyes met — or at least he thought they did — just for a second.
Then the figure turned, disappeared into the crowd.
Phyo remained still, one hand on the window frame. The whisper replayed in his mind again and again.
"Phyo…"
He didn't know what was happening to him — only that whatever had started that night in the forest wasn't finished.It was moving closer.