Deniz sat motionless in front of the TV. A nature documentary was playing silently — a herd of deer trudging through a snowy forest — but his eyes weren't on the screen. The hum in his mind drowned out the ambient sounds of the show.
Yiğit wouldn't arrive for another twenty-five minutes.
That span of time felt elastic, stretching longer with each second. He didn't want to check the clock, didn't want to look at his phone again. His mind kept repeating one single sentence:
> "Did you call Deniz?"
Deniz's building. Fifth floor. His name. Three unfamiliar men.
Suddenly, he stood up — and startled himself with the motion. He looked down the hallway, into the unlit corridor. He didn't reach for the light switch. He just stared. Waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Silence.
Not the kind of silence that fills every home at night, but something denser. Heavier. Like the apartment itself was holding its breath. It looked the same as always, but something felt wrong. Or rather — something was missing. Or maybe... something extra was present. A weight in the air. An unspoken tension.
He returned to his seat under the yellow light of the kitchen lamp. As he sat, a faint sound stopped him — a soft click, barely audible. Maybe a plastic bag outside the kitchen window. Maybe the brush of a shadow against a chair.
He froze.
His eyes turned toward the window. Darkness beyond the glass, except for his own reflection. He stared a few seconds longer, then tried to smile — but the expression didn't feel right on his face anymore. Like it belonged to someone else.
— Don't be ridiculous, he whispered to himself. You're just tired. That's all.
But he didn't believe it.
He picked up his phone and looked at Yiğit's last message again. As his eyes scanned the screen, a new notification appeared at the bottom:
Audio Recording Saved — 00:03
His fingers trembled.
No file name. Just the duration: three seconds.
What could be recorded in three seconds?
His thumb hovered over the "delete" button. But instead, he pressed play.
A breath.
A woman's breath. Very close. Very soft.
That was all.
He dropped the phone to the table. Took a deep breath — but it didn't fill his lungs. He stood and walked to the bathroom. Stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were slightly red. From sleeplessness? From fear?
He reached to splash water on his face — but stopped. There was no steam, no fog on the mirror. And yet, a faint fingerprint was visible. A single smudge dragged vertically, as if someone had pressed a finger to the glass and slowly pulled it downward.
— No, no, no... that's not possible.
This was his home. No one else had been here.
And then, as if someone had turned a dial in his brain, a voice echoed in his head. His own voice — but distant, distorted:
> "You still don't remember, do you?"
He recoiled, nearly stumbling backward. Even his own reflection startled him.
He fled the bathroom, turned on all the lights, and checked every room. Doors locked. Windows closed. Curtains drawn. Everything as it should be.
But still — that recording, that fingerprint, the shadow at the window — they were real. They had to be.
Back in the living room, he avoided turning the light on. Instead, he approached the window and peered down at the street. Under a flickering streetlamp, he thought he saw someone standing. A figure — still as a statue.
He rubbed his eyes. The figure remained.
And then, suddenly… gone.
He couldn't bring himself to go outside. Couldn't even call anyone else.
He sat back down and picked up his phone. Hovered over Yiğit's name. Just as he was about to call, the screen suddenly went black. A single word appeared in stark white letters:
"Remember."
He tapped the screen. Nothing happened. The phone seemed frozen. He pressed the power button. The screen went black, then returned to normal.
But he'd seen it. The word. It had been real.
He buried his head in his hands, muttering:
— What's happening to me? Am I losing it?
Just then, the doorbell rang again.
He flinched.
He checked the time. Still ten minutes before Yiğit was supposed to arrive.
— No… too early…
His footsteps were slow, careful. He stopped just before the door. This time, he didn't look through the peephole. He simply stood there. His hand hovered over the doorknob — but before he could touch it, something slid under the door.
A piece of paper.
He bent down and picked it up.
A short message, handwritten:
"I've always been here. Now you see me too."