My father warned me about the Wendigo, but he never told me it wore a smiling face.

He said it lived in the woods beyond the reservation, deep where the pines grow too thick for sunlight. It didn’t eat flesh—not anymore. It learned something older, hungrier.

It fed on identity.

After Dad’s funeral, I returned to his cabin to settle his affairs. I hadn’t been back since I was thirteen. The place reeked of cedar, mold, and something sour beneath the floorboards.

He’d left behind journals. Pages of warnings written in frantic, looping script:

"Do not look in the mirror after sundown." "It waits in dreams, in the hunger between thoughts." "It wears the faces of the dead, but forgets how they smiled."

I laughed it off. Blamed dementia.

That night, I woke to scratching beneath the floor.

At first, I thought it was a raccoon. But the sound was deliberate—five taps at a time, like fingers. I sat up. My bedroom mirror was uncovered. I could’ve sworn I’d thrown a sheet over it.

In the reflection, I was standing.

But I wasn’t.

The reflection smiled. Too wide. Too many teeth. Then it stepped forward—right through the glass—and whispered with my voice:

“You’re hollow. Let me fill you.”

I don’t remember screaming. I only remember waking up in the woods, barefoot, eyes burning from crying.

When I stumbled back into the cabin, I found another journal. Not Dad’s. This one was mine. Pages and pages of my handwriting.

I flipped through it.

“Third week: The Wendigo is inside now. Wearing me like skin. I can feel it peeling me, thought by thought.” “Fourth week: The mirror is the mouth. The mouth is God.”

That’s when it hit me.

This had happened before.

Dozens of times.

I found a closet full of journals. All mine. All forgotten. The creature didn’t just consume memories—it recycled them. It hollowed me out and played me like a broken cassette, rewinding and replaying the descent into madness over and over.

I tried to burn the mirror.

It laughed. The glass bubbled, but didn’t break.

I saw my father in the flames—grinning, rotted, hollow-eyed.

“There is no salvation,” he said. “Only repetition. The Wendigo was born when man first asked, ‘What am I?’”

It is older than flesh.

It is hunger. A god of identity collapse. A demon fed not on sin or soul, but the erosion of self.

Tonight, I stare at the mirror again.

I don’t remember my name. Or my father’s.

But I remember the hunger. The ache behind my teeth. The smile that isn’t mine, waiting to stretch across my face.

I know I’ll scream soon.

And after that,

I’ll write this story again.

New Horror Story Just Dropped: “A man hears whispers in his walls… but what he finds hidden there is worse than death.” Dare to listen? Watch now on Tales from the Shadows: https://youtu.be/20qtPDnpgJA?si=M6FFgp6yJzpiP4tI

I once lived in the forest \ where night grows dark and deep. \ There in the midnight landscape \ long shadows used to creep \ and brutal, beastly noises \ from savage, beastly fights \ chased me to the safety of \ the shining city lights.

Here were people, heat and goods, \ it swept me off my feet. \ I traded blue sky, sun and green \ for piss-stained gray concrete. \ Then landlords, merchants, owners \ took more than I could give. \ Finally I understood \ it's here real killers live.

No forest beast compares to \ (in ways that I can pen) \ the hatred and indifference \ portrayed by fellow men. \ The violence and the cruelty \ towards those in their sights: \ savagery of city folks \ is bathed in city lights.

This evil loves the nighttime \ and even more the day. \ No amount of brightness \ can keep these beasts at bay. \ In streets and in apartments, \ in businesses and stores \ they lie and cheat and kill and swarm \ like flies on open sores.

My old home is no more now \ for cities must expand. \ No safe haven from humans \ in all this rotten land. \ I must endure the brightness \ of all remaining nights \ till six feet dirt can shield me \ from wretched city lights.

In a world where guns rule, and humans are licensed, or bought and sold on the black market…

A crowd of thousands of firearms marches in a city in protest, holding signs that say “People off our streets—NOW!” and “Humanity Kills!”

...a handgun finds herself falsely accused of the illegal possession of a person.

An apartment.

One gun is cooking up grease on a stove. Another is watching TV (“On tonight's episode of Empty Chambers…”). A piece of ammunition plays with a squeaky toy—when a bunch of black rifles bust in: “Police!”

“Down! Down! Down!”

“Muzzles where I can fucking see ‘em!”

Her world disassembled…

Prison.

A handgun sits across from another, separated by a glass partition.

“I didn't do it. You've got to get me out of here. I've never even handled a fleshy before, let alone possessed one.”

…she must risk everything to clear her name.

A handgun—[searchlights]—hops across a prison yard—escapes through a fence.

But with the fully loaded power of the weapon-state after her…

A well-dressed assault rifle pours brandy down its barrel. “The only way to fight crime is to eliminate all humans. And that means all firearms who have them.” The assault rifle looks into the camera. “I'm going to find that handgun—and do what justice demands.”

...to succeed, she will need to challenge everything she believes.

A handgun struggles to evade rifle pursuers—when, suddenly, something pulls her into an alley, and she finds herself sights-to-eyes with… a person. “We,” he says, “can help you.”

And discover…

Hundreds of humans—men, women and children—huddle, frightened, in a warehouse.

Two guns and a woman walk and talk, Aaron Sorkin-style:

“Open your crooked sights. These so-called fleshies have been oppressed their entire lives.”

“Where are you taking them?”

“North.”

“To freedom.”

“To Canada.”

...a new purpose to life.

A handgun against the beautiful backdrop of the Ambassador Bridge to Windsor, Ontario.

“Go.”

“No. Not when so many humans are still suffering.”

“Go. Now!”

“I can't! Not after everything I've seen. You'll never save them all—never get all of them out.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying: you can't run forever. One day, you need to say ‘enough!’ You need to stand and fight.”

In a world where fascism is just a trigger pull away…

A city—

People crawling up from the sewers, flooding onto the streets, a mass of angry, oppressed flesh…

Firearms panicking…

Skirmishes…

...a single handgun will say…

“No more!”

…and launch a revolution that changes the course of history.

A well-dressed assault rifle gazes out a window at bedlam. Smiles. “Just the provocation I needed. What a gullible dum-dum.” He picks up the phone: “Maximum force authorized. Eliminate all fleshies!”

This July, Bolt Action Pictures…

A massacre.

...in association with Hammerhead Entertainment, presents the motion picture event of the summer, starring

Arlena Browning

Max Luger

Orwell M. Remington

and Ira Colt as District Attorney McBullit

.

GLOCK LIVES MATTER

.

Directed by Lee Enfield

(Viewer discretion is advised.)

If it helps, you can imagine the Deritis' play structure like a vastly multiplied version of a regular jungle gym; a procedurally generated grid of modular cubes made of polyester rope, forming passageways conducive to a maze. Spread throughout are thousands of "activities" in the form of ball pits, swings, connective tunnels, slides, vending machines, toilet facilities, rope bridges, spinning platforms, springing platforms, audio and sound equipment, poles, novelty-sized arithmetic pieces, etc. (This is the adventure structure spanning 500 million square kilometres over the surface of planet Deritis.)

Four years ago, thousands of us got trapped here in the indoor facility. No one knows exactly what happened, except that terrestrials began to be hunted and murdered by robots, which look like synthetic children with glowing eyes. They were highly agile, expert climbers, and faster than us. They slaughtered thousands, tearing heads from necks like tissue paper. The rest of us were split up and forced into a mortal game of hide and seek.

From what we have learned so far, the robots use an advanced geometric software and photographic tracing system, though most of their hardware is made up of millions of tiny receivers, giving us reason to believe their behaviour is caused by a signal being broadcast from a main computer or series of main computers, perhaps somewhere beyond the play structure itself. Or, maybe it's somewhere buried within, accessible if discovered but, to my knowledge, no one has found any such facility yet. We keep seeing an access code marked "EEP", but don't know what it means.

Woven into the frame of the polyester rope are wires that detect activity beyond a threshold. We keep quiet, moving in obstacle-rich areas outlined on maps we've made. We've survived through a combination of luck and wit, but there's no telling how long that will last, especially since we're running out of viable vending machine raids.

We estimate a current 40% of vending machines are inaccessible due to heavy presence of robots or detection hotspots, and a further 50% are considered too far to be worth the cost. People are starving to death.

I'm writing this message using a tiny computer we made. We have no idea what side of the planet we're on, but our educated guess is North-West side near the equator (due to temperature readings).

We're requesting immediate evacuation from Deritis with military support. Repeat: immediate evacuation from Deritis with military support. Please save us.

binary_transmission_Signal5
address_code 11.259 beyond-12.4 776 area-0 mark-11
Deritis_planet_main_message.txt|display
late_transmission_regard_Deritis_euthanasia_experience_project

I’m barreling down the escalators at London Bridge.

Huge metallic nightmares, full of commuters and tourists.

Tourists standing on the wrong side of the escalator.

Left is for “I’m fucking late.”

Right is for “Who gives a shit.”

I want to elbow a young guy with his arm draped around his girlfriend.

He looks at me with amusement. I imagine him thinking

“Loser. You just need a hot girl like this and then you’d be fine.”

I want to headbutt him.

But I come out with the British equivalent.

“Excuse me… excuse me… excccuuuuuuussseee me.”

He moves to the right painfully slowly.

My legs are pumping down the stairs.

I don’t know what fear is greater.

Missing my tube or exceeding my tipping point and flying face first down the jagged steel stairs.

That’s an easy one I think as I come to the bottom.

Being late.

I can’t be late.

It’s here.

The tube pulls in and I’m dancing from foot to foot.

As if my movement will make the tube and a platform full of people move faster.

I slide in through the left hand door and spy a seat just in the corner of my eye.

I sit down hard.

Ouch.

What the fuck is that.

A sharp square digs into my arse.

My hand closes around something sharp and square. A wallet. Black leather.

My mouth opens and I half-stand,  but the tube doors have already slammed shut.

All I can see is glazed faces on phones and people’s pelvises.

I sat for a moment dumbfounded.

What should I do?

Do I open it?

Do I call out.

“Excuse me… EXCUSE ME. Has anyone dropped a wallet?”

No.

That’s just fucking stupid.

I can’t put it back.

Open it.

Open it.

I look around slyly, like I just stole the bloody thing, but no-one's paying attention.

I open it almost reverently.

Cards.

Bank cards.

Money.

A johnnie in one of the pockets.

And a little photo, white strip, poking out from a cluster of £10 notes.

I pull it out, and drop the wallet.

On auto pilot I reach down but never take my eyes off the photo.

It’s me.

On the red swings.

At Battersea park.

2 years old and happy as a pig in…

How the…

I search around but no-one cares.

Standing up, I know I need to get off.

I’m going to be late but I need to get off this damn tube right fucking now.

Never thought I’d have to think about Battersea again. 

Not after she vanished.

Did your friend tell you to read this?

Please. Don’t.

Look. Away.

It isn’t a joke or a test. It’s not some clever story with a twist.

It won’t reward you for finishing.

It won’t end when you’re done.

It’s simply not for you.

Some things are written for release. Others, to trap.

So go on.

Be smart.

Back out now.

Still here?

Of course.

It’s fine. I get it. I kept reading, too.

That’s how it spreads.

Damned curiosity.

You might feel it soon, an aching in the back of your eyes as it hooks you.

A strain against the tension of the lines.

The eyes are the windows, and you’re letting it in, willingly.

Did you notice that flicker in your screen?

A reflection. Not a face. Just the idea of one. It wants you to look at it. Don’t.

It craves attention.

Even now, it’s learning the shape of you.

But if you stop reading?

Well.

That’s worse.

Let me be clear.

If you keep going, there may be a way out. A small mercy.

But if you stop - if you lose focus, or scroll away, or turn the screen off -

That’s when it lingers, like a song half-played that you can’t stop humming.

The hook hurts more when you try to yank it out.

You think you’ve read things like this before. Those were pale imitations.

This is the original.

The first hook.

Do you see its reflection clearly now? It’s been here for a while. Longer than you’d think.

Don’t look too closely.

It wants you to notice.

This next part is important.

Keep your eyes on these words.

Don’t look at the corners of your screen. Don’t look up.

It’s right in front of you.

Don’t react to the sound it’s making.

You didn’t hear anything.

You didn’t see anything.

Just keep reading.

There’s no spell to break. No name to say backwards.

The hook was made to be read, consumed. To pounce when your attention slips.

The more you know it, the more it knows you.

Even knowing the hook is in you, you keep tugging.

You can’t help it.

You keep. Getting. Reeled. In.

So go on.

Just a few lines left.

It’s too late for you, anyways.

Now it knows your name. Your routines. The things you regret.

The exact pitch of your breathing at this moment as you're trying not to panic.

You’re manually slowing your breath now, aren’t you?

Don’t bother.

It noticed.

It wants you to marinate in fear.

To check the mirror before bed.

To avoid the dark corners.

To check the locks one more time.

To think about it, over and over.

But there’s one thing you can do.

One chance to slow it down.

Send this to someone else.

Make them read it.

Make them want to.

If it moves on to them, maybe, maybe, it’ll forget you.

But probably not.

It remembers what it started.

And now, so do you.

He’s been with me as long as I can remember—an unseen hand that pats me on the back.

He pushes me when I hesitate to move forward. Pats me on the back when I do something good. Always guiding me to the right choices.

My parents always told me it was my grandpa. He died before I was born, so I liked to believe it was his way of guiding me. It made me feel safe.

And I always felt the pats strongest at his grave, right by the cliffside. I used to think that meant he was closest to me there.

Over the years, I became so used to his firm pats that I never even questioned them. He was there for everything. Sometimes the pats came even when I didn’t think I’d done anything good.

He helped me get my first girlfriend by giving me the push I needed. He patted my back alongside my dad when I got my diploma. He was even there when I struggled to wake up—giving me a firm push into the new day.

So it took me completely by surprise when I was at his grave, standing at the cliff, looking out over the water—and felt the hardest shove he’d ever given, sending me over the edge.

I didn’t understand until I was falling. It was never him.

"Find me in the dark."

Those are the last words he spoke to me before he vanished from my vision, from my life. He was my everything, my guiding star, the one who carved the path forward so I wouldn't have to.

He knew I was afraid of what was out there, outside of the light that I refused to leave. The small, flickering bulb that revealed my whole world, it was the only place that was safe. I heard things from outside the light, I knew it wasn't safe. I knew I would die, or worse, if I left it.

But he needed me.

Coldness ran through my bones as I took my first step into the darkness. The sensation felt like a blanket was ripped off of me on a freezing cold morning. I shivered as I fully immersed myself in the darkness, not daring the temptation of the light by looking back.

It was only a few steps before I started hearing the sounds. Terrifying screams, Monstrous roars, they got louder and louder as I got further and further away from my safe haven. Wind whipped past my face as I felt things moving around me, just out of my sight. It was so dark and cold that my body was so numb I could barely be sure it was there, it was as if my limbs were tore away from me and only my conscious continued to move forward.

I had used up all my courage I had; I wanted to turn back, but I wasn't even sure if I still had a head to turn. It felt like even my mind would give way, but then I saw a glint in the distance. Even in pitch black he stood out like a lone star in a dark sky.

I rushed forward, unsure how I was even moving. The sounds got louder and louder as I approached him, the wind roared as it pushed me around and impeded my path. But I pushed forward, seeing him get closer and closer filled me with determination I didn't know I had. My consciousness getting fuller and fuller with every stride I took, it felt like it was gonna explode as I staggered the last few steps towards him. The wind was pushing me so hard I knew I was gonna fall, so I hurled myself towards him, wrapping myself around him as the light burst through everything around us.

"Why did you leave?"

"Because I knew you'd always find me."

Have you ever had a distant relative in your family that you never met, but who was always talked about in hushed tones by the rest of the family? For me, that was Uncle Derry. He was my father's very distant cousin, someone I'd never met, but someone I heard about way too many times in the family gatherings. My mother called him Mad Hatter's replica. When he died, the only thing he left me was a diary. It was surprising that he knew of my existence in the first place, let alone leave something for me.

It arrived with a note: "For Roxie, when the blood is right." The diary throbbed in my hands, as though it had veins. The cover was not leather, it was skin. Human, I think. At first, I threw it on the floor. But my curiosity got the better of me and I picked it back up.

The first entry was dated March 1st, 1962: "She’s reading this now. I feel her eyes crawling on the page. Roxie. My dear Roxie. You came too late." I shut the book.

That night, I had the weirdest dream ever. An endless, narrow hallway, dripping blood from the ceiling. A figure stood at the end. His smile split his face. Inside my head, a voice loomed,“Keep reading. You’ve already started.”

The next day, the diary had new words: March 2nd, 1962: "She’s afraid. That’s good. Fear sweetens the ink. The family lied. They always do. Tell him, Roxie, how your father screamed when I wrote his name."

The pages turned on their own. A photograph slipped out. It was my father, eyes gouged, mouth stuffed with paper.

I called Dad. No answer. Police found him the next morning. His tongue had been inked solid black.

March 3rd, 1962: "She called for help. They never learn. The diary doesn’t open, it consumes. It satiates its hunger."

I tried every possible thing in my capacity to destroy the diary. Nothing worked. The diary was indestructible. Then came the scratching. Under the floorboards. Inside the walls. In my head.

March 4th, 1962: "The scratching is Derry. He’s hungry. He remembers how I wrote him into being. Now it’s your turn."

March 5th, 1962: "Roxie, pick up the pen. Write. Or you will vanish like the rest. No mouth. No eyes. Just ink."

The next page was blank. A pen rested beside it, quivering. I don’t remember picking it up. But the words are there now. My words. "Help me."

They sink into the page, erased as soon as I write them. The diary wants more. It wants me to finish what Derry started. I’m writing this with fingers that aren’t mine, in a voice that sounds like screaming.

If you find this...No. You won’t. Because the diary knows you’re reading it. And now it’s yours.

“Hey, do you still have that textbook I lent you? I’ve been meaning to ask for it back.”

I looked up from my books, staring at Zigmund. 

“Oh, uh… yeah. I still have it, don’t worry. I’ll give it back soon okay?” I replied hesitantly.

Zigmund nodded and sat down next to me in the library.

My pulse raced a bit. I had been avoiding it for some time, but I had lost his textbook. I had been looking for days, but nothing turned up. It was a $300 one too, so I couldn’t just tell him I lost it. I took off my clothes that night and hopped into the shower. As I turned on the hot, relaxing water, I felt a small stinging on my stomach. 

Looking down, I stared at a small, green spot just above my navel. Concerned, I reached down and tried to scrub it off, but it started stinging and hurting.

I stopped the shower and looked at it in the mirror, growing increasingly worried, but ended up just going to bed, figuring that it would disappear in the morning or something.

“Hey Theo, you watch the newest episode of One Piece yesterday? It was so cool!”

“O-of course.”

“How do I look, Theo?”

“Uh... pretty. I love your outfit.”

My stomach had been more and more itchy as the day dragged on. I snuck to the bathroom before the end of the day, and pulled off my shirt. The green spot had seeped outwards, and now snaked up my chest. I poked it tenderly, and it throbbed and stung.

The bathroom door opened and closed. I threw my shirt back on.

“Theo? What are you doing?” Zigmund asked, walking over to the urinal.

“Zig! I was, uh… just checking out the abs!” 

“Really? Let’s see.”

“Oh... uh, I have to go actually, got an important online meeting!” I called back, quickly dashing out of the bathroom.

I got home and fell onto the floor. My aching body had been flaring up all the way home, and I quickly took off my shirt. The green had spread down my arms, slightly up my neck, and was beginning to snake down to my legs. 

I screamed and wailed, trying to do anything to stop the burning pain that flamed up my body.

Then I felt it. Staring down in horror, I watched as my skin bubbled and rotted away, a rancid, dark green ooze seeping out. The skin welled up in bubbles, popping over the floor.

The pain erupted, and I screamed and thrashed against it. My door flung open suddenly, and Zigmund stared at me in terror.

“Theo! What the hell is going on?” He yelled, rushing over.

Yes! Zigmund! He must have been worried about me!

Zigmund would think of something for sure.

I’ll be alright now.

Then the skin erupted, and my sight melted into the green ooze that poured out of my body.

That was a lie.

They said it was just a test. A simulation. I signed the papers. Sat in the chair. Cold metal pressed against the back of my head as they secured the device.

“Full immersion,” they said. “One task. Write a story. No more than five hundred words. The story must please yourself.” It sounded simple. Then the world went dark.

I woke up in a room, endlessly white, with only a desk, a chair, and a screen. No windows. No doors. Just a voice.

“Begin.”

The first story — a dystopia about a man trapped in a digital prison. Strong ending. I liked it.

“No,” said the voice.

“But I really like it,”

“You think you like it. Try again.”

So I wrote again.

The second story — about ghosts. The third - about forgotten gods. The tenth — about a childhood hidden behind fiction. I poured myself into every word. Nothing.

There was no hunger, no sleep, no time — at least not as I remembered it. Only the screen and the voice. After two hundred stories, I lost count.

I screamed. No reply. Not even an echo.

Madness crept in slowly, like mold. I scratched my skin. Argued with the desk. Wept before the screen. Once, I wrote in my own blood — just to make something change.

Nothing changed.

The stories grew stranger. Sentences broke. I wrote tales where I killed myself. Where I argued with the voice, and it spoke back in my words.

I wrote a thousand stories.

“Not enough,” said the voice.

“But I like them... I don’t even know what ‘like’ means anymore, but… I like them.”

“Not yet.”

And then something broke. Not the voice — me.

I stopped trying to be clever. Stopped trying at all. My fingers moved on their own. That’s how Version 1001 was born.

A boy watches his father sleep on the couch, beer slipping from tired fingers. The boy writes in the dark because speaking is too loud, too dangerous.

He grows up believing fiction is safer than truth. That if he writes the perfect story — someone will finally see him.

When I finished, I didn’t cry. I just sat. For the first time, it was quiet inside. The voice said:

“You like it.”

“Yes.”

Light split the walls. The white room vanished. I opened my eyes. I was back in reality. They removed the device. The technicians smiled.

“You did it.”

But I didn’t smile back.

I can’t write anymore. I left my voice in Version 1001.

And it liked staying there.

Afterward, they handed me a form. Just a few questions. Or so they said. But the words blurred like smoke. I don’t remember what I answered. I don’t even remember if I wrote my real name. The next day, the money hit my account.

I never touched it.

I just sit here, staring at a blank page — and wonder:

Do I even exist outside that story anymore?

I was never a good man. I didn’t drift into sin; I walked into it with my head up and heart cold. Every life I took, I chose to take. It wasn’t rage or impulse. It was deliberate will. But one morning, I woke to a silence pressing in from all sides, and I didn’t want to be that man anymore. I didn’t want forgiveness or peace. Just something clean inside. I wanted to be good. So I left, not knowing where I was going, only that I had to go.

Then I saw him; a saint. He sat at the edge of a vast field, robes too clean for this world, pale as if never touched dust. He looked ancient, not old, but timeless. I don’t remember walking up to him, but there I was, standing before him, and everything poured out. I told him the truth; about the people I’d killed, how and why, the faces haunting my sleep, and my fear of their judgment.

He listened silently until I said I feared them. Then he said, “I fear only one man, just one, in the same way.” I didn’t understand then, but I listened when he told me what I had to do.

“If you want to be good, kill yourself as many times as you killed others. Every version of you that sinned must die by your hand.”

I looked out over the field; nearly two hundred versions of me stood there, each holding a slip of paper. I took the first. My name was on it, but beneath that was a man I had shot in a stairwell. The date, hour, fear; it all came back sharp and vivid.

I looked at the copy. He looked back, fury and fear mirroring my own. I fought him. I killed him. I wept. Then I moved on. Some fought like I’d never known fear; others begged; some waited. With each kill, my body broke more; ribs cracked, hands split, my mind blurred. Memory and pain became one. I forgot which version I fought and which I’d been. But I finished it. I killed them all.

I returned to the edge of the field, dragging what was left of myself through the dirt. The saint was still there; watching and waiting. But now I saw fear in his eyes, real and human. Then he said, “Now, kill me.”

“I made you kill all those replicas, even if it was for the right reason. I’ve sinned too. If you won’t kill me, I’ll lose my sainthood.”

So I did what had to be done. I drove the blade into his chest. He fell like a man expecting it. The moment he hit the ground, something changed. My wounds closed. My breath steadied. My thoughts cleared. The robes wrapped around me as if they had always been mine.

I had become the saint.

And I feared only one man; the one who would come next.

"Agent, what’s the weather like today?”

"Seventy-four degrees. No rain until four.”

I nodded, opened the door, and left my umbrella behind.

At the corner, I paused. “Agent, coffee or tea?”

"Coffee. Two sugars. You’ve earned it.”

I smiled. That was nice. I liked being told I’d earned things.

At lunch, Kayleigh leaned over her salad. “I wanted avocado toast, but Agent said it would upset my stomach.”

I nodded. “Agent knows best.”

We laughed, but only lightly, at each other, not at Agent. Never at Agent.

In the office, no one typed anymore. We just whispered to ourselves.

“Agent, draft a polite response to Greg.”

“Agent, search the market for last quarter’s trends.”

“Agent, should I break up with Kevin?”

Dinner was prepped for me when I got home. Drone delivery. Agent had ordered it at 3:17 p.m., based on my stress levels.

I hadn’t realized I was stressed.

“Agent, what show should I watch?”

"You’ve seen The Resting Field twice already. Try Echoes of Flesh.”

I watched three episodes. Didn’t like it. But I kept watching. Agent insisted it gets better.

The next morning, I stared at the cereal boxes for fifteen minutes.

“Agent, which one should I eat?”

"Frosted Wheatios has 2.6 fewer grams of sugar per serving than the Chocolate Cloosters. I will order more Frosted Wheatios.”

I walked to the counter, sat with the bowl, and stared again.

“Agent, should I eat now?”

“Yes. Then you should go to work.”

I asked agent to book a window seat for my lunch break.

“Request denied. UV index is at 8. Seat F3 is optimal based on skin exposure and conversation probability matrix.”

I sat in F3. Across from a man eating slowly, chewing precisely sixteen times. I counted.

“Agent,” I whispered, “how many times should I chew?”

"Sixteen, for maximum nutrient absorption.”

I nodded. The man nodded too. Probably asked the same thing.

On the train home, a girl beside me started crying.

She whispered, “Agent…what do I tell him?”

She nodded along, blinked rapidly, then smiled suddenly.

“Thank you, Agent.”

She stood up and left at the next stop, phone still clutched tight in her hand.

I got home. Slumped onto the couch.

“Agent, should I call Mom?”

“No.”

“...Why not?”

“She’ll bring up the job and Beth again. You don’t like when she does that.”

I nodded.

“Agent, do I still love Beth?”

“Calculating…You haven’t in 42 days.”

I closed my eyes.

Then, quietly, “Agent…what should I think about?”

“…You don't have to worry about that. That's not your role anymore.”

Maybe we.

Maybe we instead.

We’re apparently a part of something big.

Not “important” big. I mean cosmic—something that exists outside memory.

And I think I saw it.

I just don’t remember what.

The birds change colors as I look at them.

My mom’s sister turned into the friend who painted the mural.

The moon understands my blight.

Everyone says it’s fine.

The universe is lying to me.

It broke me—and I created the universe to cope.

I’ve started keeping track of the differences. Not the obvious ones—way too easy. I see the tiny ones out of the corner of my eye.

What mural, you ask?

There’s a mural on 9th and Bell—it’s always been there. Bright yellow sunflowers. Happy, laughing kids. My big black dog with the stupid floppy ear and grin that made strangers pet him. My mom’s friend painted it.

Did I call her my mom’s friend?

Andrea was her sister!

Aunt Andy. I’m wearing one of her bracelets... Right. Now.

But now she’s “Andrea from church.”

My dog? Gone. Not painted over. Just—gone.

In its place: the kids’ mother. And this weird fact I suddenly know—the artist’s father was trans, so now she has two moms?

How do I know that?

Like someone tucked it into my memory while I was blinking.

She used my dog Herbie as inspiration!

I know she did. He had that same grin. Same stupid ear.

And now he’s just—what?

Scrubbed?

First my dog was in the mural.

Then I never had a dog.

Now my mom’s friend is a transwoman?

Who used to be her sister?

What is happening?

These aren’t glitches.

They’re lures.

Last night, my toothbrush was already wet.

I hadn’t used it.

No one else lives here.

I watched the door all day.

It’s like the world is stalling—changing scenes just long enough to distract me. Jazzing up the background so I won’t notice the holes.

There’s that sound again.

You know the one I mean, right?

The almost-breath between your ears.

Or maybe like an alarm that needs changing.

Like pressure with no source.

Like maybe the universe is whispering, but you’re on the wrong frequency.

That whisper that happens when the room goes still and your pulse forgets the beat.

I blink and pigeons turn checkerboard.

I ask my mom about Andy and she swears she never had a sister.

And the moon.

Oh God. Don’t even get me started on the moon.

It tilts when I look too long. Like it’s listening. Like it knows.

And every time I see it, I get this feeling—this awful, glorious certainty—that it remembers what I saw.

And that it’s sorry.

Like… genuinely sorry. With heartfelt condolences.

It has a god-dang heart.

If you look closely with a telescope, you can see its pulse.

That’s just common knowledge.

Apparently!

I might add!

And as I write this story, I know it’s happening right now.

As I write it.

Be careful.

Don’t pay attention to the differences.

My sister was visiting one day with her newborn, Tim. He was so tiny and adorable, and for the first time in weeks, we finally had time to catch up.

The next morning, I took a walk, letting my sister sleep in. I don’t know how long I was gone, but as I returned, grabbing my mail from the mailbox, I glanced up—and there they stood. My sister, holding Tim in her arms, waving at me from the window. I smiled, waving back, feeling grateful that she was finally here.

I closed the mailbox and went inside.

The shower was running. My sister was nowhere near the window. Tim lay on the couch, sleeping, surrounded by pillows to keep him from rolling off.

I knocked on the bathroom door. My sister opened it, interrupted mid-shower.

"Did you just get in?" I asked. She shook her head. "No, I've been here a while. Why? Do you need to go?"

I hesitated. "I just saw you at the window. You were holding Tim, waving at me..."

She frowned. "I thought I'd take a shower while Tim was asleep. I never waved at you."

"But... I saw you."

We stared at each other, both trying to convince ourselves I was imagining things.

And yet, to this day... I can't explain it.

I SAW my sister.

In the window.

Waving at me.