Normalcy was fragile.
Parsa realized that as he walked.
The city looked the same.
Sounded the same.
Smelled the same.
And yet… something felt slightly misaligned. Like a painting hung just a little too crooked.
He stopped at a crosswalk.
The light was red.
Cars passed. People stood beside him. A woman checking her phone. An old man holding a plastic bag of bread. A student yawning, headphones in.
All of them real.
So why did his chest feel tight?
Parsa rubbed his temples.
"Get a grip," he muttered.
The voice didn't answer.
That should have comforted him.
It didn't.
When the light turned green, he stepped forward—and froze.
For a fraction of a second, the asphalt rippled beneath his foot. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But he felt it. A subtle resistance, like stepping onto something soft and breathing.
He lifted his foot immediately.
The ground was solid again.
No one reacted.
No screams. No shadows. No impossible geometry. Just a city that kept moving.
Parsa swallowed.
You imagined it.
He repeated that thought like a mantra as he continued walking. Past the bakery. Pastthethe café. Past the alley entrances he deliberately avoided.
Especially Alley 61.
He didn't look at it.
Didn't slow down.
Didn't breathe until it was behind him.
Only then did he realize his hands were shaking.
Back at his apartment building, the elevator felt… smaller.
The mirrored walls reflected his face too clearly. Every blink felt delayed, like his reflection needed a moment to catch up.
He stared at his own eyes.
Dark brown. Normal.
No amber glow.
Good.
The elevator dinged.
Twentieth floor.
When he stepped out, something was wrong.
The hallway lights were on—but dimmer than usual. The air felt heavier, thick with a faint metallic scent, like rain-soaked iron.
Parsa frowned.
"This building needs better maintenance," he muttered, forcing a laugh that died halfway out of his throat.
As he reached his door, he noticed it.
A mark.
Scratched into the paint, just beside the handle.
Not letters. Not symbols.
More like… grooves. Irregular. Curved. As if something had pressed against the door from the other side.
Parsa's heart skipped.
His key trembled in his fingers.
He unlocked the door.
Nothing jumped out.
Nothing moved.
His apartment was exactly as he'd left it.
Still, he stood there for a full minute, listening.
Silence.
He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.
Only then did he exhale.
The rest of the day passed in uneasy calm.
He ate. Tried to game. Failed. Every sound felt too sharp. Every shadow too deliberate.
By evening, the tension had settled into his bones.
Parsa sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the bookshelf across the room.
One book was missing.
He was certain of it.
He stood up slowly and approached the shelf. His fingers brushed over the spines, counting unconsciously.
One… two… three…
There was a gap.
A clean gap.
As if a book had been removed carefully.
Parsa frowned harder.
"I don't lend books," he said aloud.
No response.
Then—
A whisper.
So faint it almost wasn't sound at all.
"Not missing."
Parsa spun around.
Nothing.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
"…Who's there?" he asked, voice low.
The whisper came again. Clearer this time. Closer.
"Not missing. Moved."
The room felt colder.
Parsa's gaze snapped back to the shelf.
A book lay on his desk now.
He was certain it hadn't been there before.
Black cover. No title. No author.
Just a faint, embossed symbol on the front.
A shape that made his eyes ache when he focused on it for too long.
His breath caught.
The voice spoke one last time, no longer whispering.
"Dreams don't leave scars, Parsa."
His sleeve slid up his arm.
On his wrist, just beneath the skin—
Faint, curved marks.
Grooves.
Exactly like the ones on his door.
The light flickered.
And somewhere, far beyond the city, something vast and patient became aware of him.