Tom woke up earlier than usual.
Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't stay asleep. His room was still slightly dark, morning light just starting to come through the curtains. He lay there for a few seconds, staring at nothing in particular.
Something felt off.
Not bad exactly. Just strange.
He sat up slowly.
No dizziness.
No headache.
Everything seemed normal.
Which somehow didn't help.
At breakfast, his parents were already talking.
"…still think we should take him back," his mom said.
"For what?" Tom asked, walking in.
Both of them looked at him.
His dad answered first. "Just making sure you're okay."
"I'm fine."
"You collapsed yesterday."
"I know."
His mom gave him that look parents give when they don't believe you.
"Any weird feelings?" she asked.
"No."
"Headache?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
They didn't push further, but Tom could tell they weren't convinced.
That got annoying quickly.
School was mostly normal.
Mostly.
People kept asking questions.
"Did you actually faint?"
"Were you sick?"
"Did you hit your head?"
Tom answered the same way every time.
"No idea."
It was easier than explaining something he didn't understand himself.
By midday, things felt more like usual.
Classes, noise, teachers talking too much.
Tom started relaxing.
Maybe it really had been nothing.
Maybe everyone had just overreacted.
That thought stayed with him right up until last period.
It happened during maths.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing loud.
Just… odd.
Tom was copying notes when his pen stopped working. He shook it once. Then again. Still nothing.
He sighed and reached into his bag for another one.
But when he looked down at the page, the numbers were wrong.
Not crossed out.
Not scribbled.
Just wrong.
He stared at them.
He didn't remember writing those.
For a moment he wondered if he was just tired.
Then the teacher spoke.
"Tom."
Tom looked up.
"Yes, sir?"
"Answer the question."
"What question?"
A few students laughed quietly.
"The one I just asked."
Tom hesitated.
"I… didn't hear it."
The teacher frowned. "Pay attention."
Tom nodded, but something about the moment bothered him.
He had been paying attention.
After class, Tyler caught up with him again.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
Tyler shrugged. "You've just been weird."
"I have not."
"You were staring at your book like it insulted you."
Tom didn't respond.
Because Tyler wasn't wrong.
And that was the irritating part.
Walking home, Tom tried to ignore the feeling building in his head.
Not pain.
Just pressure.
Like something was nagging at him.
He told himself he was imagining it.
When he reached his street, he slowed.
There was a man standing near his house.
Tom didn't recognize him.
The man wasn't doing anything suspicious. Just standing there, looking down the road. But something about it immediately put Tom on edge.
As Tom got closer, the man turned.
Their eyes met briefly.
Then the man walked away.
Calm. Unhurried. Like nothing had happened.
Tom watched him go.
That definitely felt strange.
Inside the house, everything was normal.
Too normal.
Tom dropped his bag near the stairs.
Something fell out.
A small folded piece of paper.
He frowned.
He didn't remember putting any paper there.
He picked it up.
No name.
No markings.
Just folded once.
For a few seconds he simply stared at it.
Then he opened it.
Three words.
"Stay alert, Tom."
He froze.
That wasn't funny.
That wasn't normal.
And that definitely wasn't something he had written himself.
He checked the hallway.
Empty.
Checked outside through the window.
No one.
His heart was beating faster now, though he wasn't sure why. Nothing had actually happened. It was just a piece of paper.
But the feeling wouldn't go away.
Who would put that in his bag?
How would they even know his name?
Tom read the message again.
Stay alert.
Stay alert for what?
He didn't like how many questions were suddenly piling up.
Upstairs, he sat on his bed.
The paper still in his hand.
For the first time since collapsing, something felt genuinely wrong.
Not confusing.
Not weird.
Wrong.
Like something had started moving behind the scenes and he had no idea what it was.
Tom didn't tell his parents.
He didn't even know why.
But something told him not to.
Instead, he folded the paper again and slid it into his drawer.
Out of sight.
Though definitely not out of mind.
That night, he kept thinking about the man.
The message.
The strange moments at school.
None of it connected.
But none of it felt random either.
And that was the part that really bothered him.
Because things that are random don't usually feel planned.
And this did.
Very much so.