Morning came, but it didn't bring relief.
The sunlight was weak, gray, as if filtered through a layer of dust or fog that only existed in my apartment. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wardrobe where the photo had appeared the night before. It hadn't moved, but I was sure it wasn't exactly where I left it.
I tried to tell myself it was imagination. That moving into a new place always made you notice things that weren't there. But the hum persisted low, constant, like a pulse that didn't belong to me.
Then I heard it:
A whisper, soft, almost polite, coming from the kitchen.
"Hy."
My heart jumped. I swallowed hard. The room was empty. I had checked already. I had no one.
"Hy."
It wasn't the refrigerator. It wasn't the walls. I could feel it inside my skull, curling around the back of my eyes.
I stood, hands shaking. Every step I took to the kitchen felt heavier than it should, and each time the hum rose slightly in pitch, matching my heartbeat.
I looked around. The kettle was on the counter. The fridge door was closed. Nothing moved. Yet I knew it was there. I didn't know what it was.
I spoke aloud. "Who's there?" My voice sounded small, foreign.
Silence.
Then a sigh. Not loud, not harsh, but near enough that I felt it touch my neck.
I ran to the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, and leaned against the cool tiles. The mirror stared back at me. My eyes looked wide, my hair a mess, my skin pale. But I wasn't alone. I could feel it the presence. Watching. Waiting.
I wanted to leave, but my shoes were in the living room. I couldn't reach them without crossing the kitchen. The hum became a low laugh, almost amused.
I told myself it was stress. Exhaustion. Lack of sleep. Anything. But even saying it out loud made the words taste wrong.
I wanted to remember something from last night, anything normal, but my memory felt slippery. The photo. The word on the mirror. Both gone when I blinked. Or maybe they were still there and I wasn't looking properly.
The whisper came again.
"Hy, look at me."
I couldn't.
I couldn't stay in the bathroom forever. The air smelled too thick, too familiar, and I knew that if I didn't move, something would change in the room without me noticing.
I grabbed my shoes. Each step to the living room felt like walking through water. The hum was gone, replaced by something sharper, higher a whispering chorus I couldn't localize. It came from every corner and none at all.
"Hy," it said again. Not one voice. Many. Overlapping. Polite, urgent, mocking.
I stopped. The shoes slipped slightly on the floor. I leaned down, tying the laces slowly, as if taking time could delay what was coming.
I heard the apartment breathe.
I didn't mean it literally. It wasn't the vent. It wasn't the refrigerator. It was something else a rhythm, an inhale and exhale that followed me from the kitchen to the couch, curling around my arms, under my ribs.
I sank into the couch, hugging my knees. The walls seemed to sway. The window reflected the city in fragments, neon signs splitting into impossible angles. My reflection stared back, but it wasn't me. It was smiling.
"Hy," it whispered. "You shouldn't be alone."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. The room was holding it.
The kettle on the counter rattled. Softly. Deliberately. I knew it wasn't the wind. I knew I hadn't touched it.
I tried to remember the night before. The photo. The word on the mirror. Both vanished from memory, yet left a residue I could feel crawling under my skin.
A shadow moved. Across the ceiling? Along the wall? I couldn't tell. My pulse was loud in my ears.
"Lookatme," the chorus said.
I forced my eyes toward the mirror. It was empty. I blinked. When I opened them again, my reflection leaned forward slightly, lips parted, smiling faintly, though I hadn't moved.
I touched the glass. Nothing happened. Nothing moved. And yet I felt heat against my fingertips, a living warmth, like someone had been leaning there all along.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to forget. But the door the hallway it all looked different now. The corridor stretched impossibly long, doors closer together, shadows falling in directions that made no sense.
I sat back down, shaking. Trying to convince myself this was exhaustion, this was stress, this was imagination. But I felt it pressing in from all sides, whispering my name, breathing in sync with my heartbeat.
"Hy," it said.
Closer. Closer than it had ever been.
I swallowed. My vision flickered. For a moment, I saw dozens of Hy-s, each staring, each whispering, each waiting. Then they were gone.
The city outside the window remained silent, gray.
I didn't move. I couldn't.
And I realized, maybe I never would be able to.
I couldn't stand. Not yet.
Every step I'd taken so far had felt wrong, and I knew moving now would break something fragile in the apartment.
The window rattled lightly. The hum returned, low, inside my chest, inside my head. It was laughter now, soft and deliberate.
I turned toward the mirror. The word from last night WELCOME BACK had shifted. The letters stretched, elongated, almost pulsing with the same rhythm as my heartbeat.
I touched it lightly. Nothing. The glass was cold, smooth, and unyielding. Still, I felt the warmth crawl up my fingers, a presence I could not see.
I sat down again on the couch, knees pulled tight, and waited.
The whisper returned. Multiple voices now, overlapping, polite, urgent, amused.
"Hy," one said.
"Hy, come closer."
"Don't be afraid, Hy."
I didn't move. I couldn't.
I tried to remember the photo, the fogged mirror, the hum, the knocks in the wardrobe. Everything was slippery, half there, half gone. But I could feel it all, crawling beneath my skin.
The corridor outside shifted. The doors I remembered weren't in the same place. Shadows stretched longer than possible. The city lights reflected in impossible angles through the window. My own reflection blinked before I did.
I heard my name from everywhere at once. From the walls, the air, the kettle, the floor.
Hy.
Hy.
Hy.
And then the whisper was inside my own mouth.
I opened it to speak. My voice wasn't my own.
"Hy…"
"Hy…"
I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the shadow from the ceiling curled down, almost human, but wrong, all angles too sharp, impossible. It leaned over me, smiling faintly.
I remembered the first night the hum, the photo, the word on the mirror. Everything I had dismissed as imagination was real. It was inside me, around me, moving with me.
I wanted to run. I wanted to wake up. But the floor beneath me felt thicker, slower. Time had become viscous, each second stretching longer than it should.
"Hy," the chorus said again. "We've been waiting."
I realized then that I was not alone. I had never been alone. Not truly.
The apartment was alive. Watching. Breathing. Laughing. Waiting for me to notice it.
And now, I did.