The apartment was quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet.
The kind that forces your ears to search for a sound.
Parsa sat still.
The black book rested on the desk. He hadn't touched it. Hadn't moved it. Its presence alone made the room feel… occupied.
As if something extra had been left behind.
His phone vibrated.
Not rang.
Vibrated.
Parsa looked at the screen.
Unknown Number.
He frowned, inhaled slowly, and answered.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then breathing.
Slow. Uneven.
Like the person on the other end was still deciding whether speaking was worth staying alive.
"…Parsa?"
His chest tightened.
"Who is this?"
A pause. The man's voice was low, rough. The voice of someone who hadn't slept properly in years.
"My name doesn't matter. What matters is… I worked with your mother."
The world stalled.
"…What?"
"Dr. Naderi. North District Research Facility. Eight years ago."
Parsa stood up.
He knew that name. Far too well.
"The project they said was an accident?"
Silence.
Then, quietly:
"It was never an accident."
Parsa gripped the phone harder.
"Then what was it?"
"A cover-up."
A car passed outside. The sound drifted through the window, distant, unreal.
"Reports were altered. Data erased. Samples went missing. Cameras were offline that night. All of them."
Parsa said, "Anyone could claim that."
The man's breathing quickened.
"Then they wouldn't know this."
A pause.
"Your mother said something was coming through."
Parsa frowned. "Coming through what?"
"Reality."
Parsa laughed once. Short. Sharp.
"Listen, if this is some kind of—"
"I heard it, Parsa."
The man swallowed.
"Not a voice. Not a machine. Pressure. Like something pressing against the inside of your skull."
Parsa said nothing.
"She said we weren't opening a door. We were being noticed."
Parsa whispered, "Noticed by what?"
"By you."
His blood ran cold.
"…Me?"
Another deep breath.
"Your name was in one of the files. Years before the project even began."
"I was a kid."
"I know."
Silence stretched.
"Parsa… do you see things?"
"…What?"
"Shadows. Distortions. Things that shouldn't exist."
"I don't—"
"I didn't ask if you did. I asked if you do."
Parsa's mouth went dry.
"…What if I do?"
The man's voice cracked.
"Then your mother failed."
Parsa's eyes drifted to the black book on the desk.
"What did she say that night?"
"That if the signs appear, it's already too late to stop it."
"What signs?"
No answer.
Then, quietly:
"If there's something in your apartment that doesn't belong to you… don't touch it."
The lights flickered.
"Why?"
"Because those things aren't gifts."
The call ended.
The screen went dark.
Parsa stood there, heart pounding. And worse than the fear—
He didn't feel alone.
The book had moved.
Just slightly closer.
"Mom…" he whispered. "What were you really dealing with?"
The book didn't open.
But something inside it breathed.
And Parsa understood—
This story had started long before the rain.