That morning, the world felt… slower.
The sounds were softer. The shadows lingered too long.
Even the birds outside the window forgot to sing.
Mother handed me my shoes in silence. Her fingers brushed mine for a second too long — like she wasn't ready to let go of me today.
I didn't ask why.
I didn't want to hear another lie.
We went to the corner shop. I held the money. She held my hand.
The shopkeeper smiled when he saw us.
But I wasn't looking at him.
I was looking at the man standing by the empty newspaper stand.
He wore a grey coat.
Plain.
Old.
His shoes didn't match.
One black. One brown.
And he wasn't reading anything.
He was just… standing there.
Still.
Like a cutout pasted onto the world.
And he was staring at me.
Not at Mother.
Not at the shelf.
Just me.
His eyes didn't blink.
Not once.
Even when I looked away.
Even when I stared back.
Nothing.
We bought the bread. A packet of milk. Some sugar.
Mother paid with coins she counted twice.
I followed her outside.
The man was gone.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The blanket felt heavy. The room felt too large.
The cracks on the ceiling looked like they'd moved.
So I got up. Walked to the window.
And there he was again.
The man.
Standing at the far end of the road.
Under a broken streetlight.
Still not blinking.
Still watching.
I wanted to look away. But I didn't.
I just stared back.
Until my breath fogged the glass.
And then—
He lifted his hand.
Not to wave.
But to point.
At me.
His mouth opened.
No sound.
But the words reached me anyway.
"Not yet. But it's starting."
I stumbled back. Fell to the floor. My elbow hit the wall.
The paper from before — the one with the symbols — fluttered down from my pillow.
It had changed again.
New symbols.
And beneath them, a message in the same perfect writing:
"The first watcher has found you."
The dream came fast that night.
Like it had been waiting.
I was back on the road of stars. But this time, it was fractured — split into a thousand tiny mirrors reflecting different versions of me.
And in each reflection, the man stood behind me.
Closer. Closer.
Until his fingers touched my shoulder.
"Don't trust the ones who remember your name," he said.
"They are not from here."
I woke up with blood in my nose.
A small streak, running cold across my upper lip.
Mother didn't notice. She was already boiling tea in the kitchen.
The man was gone.
But the mark he left behind wasn't.
Because now… I could feel it.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
And every time I closed my eyes…
He was closer.