That night, she locked the bedroom door before bed. She hid the journal under her pillow. At 3:02 a.m., she woke to a soft scraping sound—the unmistakable sound of paper sliding across wood. Her hand shot under the pillow. The journal was gone. “Ken?” she whispered. No answer.
She got up, flicked on the light. The room was empty. The journal was on the desk—open. A new entry had been written: “You’ll understand when it’s over.” Her breath hitched. The handwriting looked like hers—but off. The loops were longer, the letters slanted differently, as if someone had been mimicking her hand.
She closed the journal slowly and backed toward the door. That’s when she saw him—Ken—standing in the hallway, motionless, watching her. “How long have you been there?” she whispered. He tilted his head slightly. “You were talking in your sleep.” “What did I say?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You asked me to stay forever.” Her pulse skipped. “Ken… what’s happening to us?” He took a slow step toward her. “Maybe we’re just finally listening.” She didn’t ask what he meant. She couldn’t. The air between them was sharp with something she couldn’t name.
The next day, she found another note. This one was on the bathroom floor, written in soap on a piece of mirror glass: “This will end in silence.” When she looked up, the rest of the mirror had cracked.
By the fourth day, the notes began disappearing faster than she could find them. She’d see one, blink, and it would be gone. Once, she swore she saw Ken burning something in the sink—but when she asked, he only smiled.
That night, she checked the drawer again. The journal was gone completely. She turned to him, standing by the window, looking out at nothing. “Ken, where is it?” He didn’t answer.
“Where’s my journal?” He finally turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the outline of a smile. “There was too much noise in it,” he said quietly. “We don’t need more noise.” Then he walked past her, brushing her shoulder lightly as he did, leaving the faint chill of his touch behind.
That evening, Lilian sat alone on the couch, watching the city lights flicker through the blinds. She thought about calling someone—her mother, Daniel, anyone—but every time she reached for the phone, a strange thought stopped her: What if they hear him too?
The apartment was utterly still. Even the hum in the walls was gone. Then, just as she started to close her eyes, a sound came from the kitchen—a soft click, like a pen cap snapping shut. She got up slowly and walked toward the sound. On the counter lay a fresh note, neatly written on white paper. She read it aloud in a trembling voice: “Stop writing. The story isn’t yours anymore.” The ink was still wet. And next to it sat her pen.
The city outside was smothered in rain. Each drop hit the apartment windows like a whispered warning, a steady rhythm that made the night feel endless. The note on the counter was still there, its words soaking into her mind: “Stop writing. The story isn’t yours anymore.”
Lilian stood staring at it for a long time, her heartbeat matching the rain’s pulse. She touched the paper. The ink smeared under her thumb. Fresh—too fresh. Someone had written it minutes ago. “Ken?” she called. Silence.
She walked through the apartment, every step deliberate, controlled. The lights flickered slightly, humming like nervous breath. The bathroom door was closed. She pushed it open—empty. The shower curtain hung limp and wet. She checked the bedroom—his jacket was gone. The window was slightly open, the curtain swaying in the damp wind.
She wanted to believe he’d stepped out. A walk. A drive. Anything ordinary. But ordinary didn’t exist between them anymore. When she turned back toward the living room, she froze. The photo. The wedding photo was back on the wall, perfectly straight this time. Her breath caught. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Her pulse hammered in her neck as she stepped closer. At first, she thought it was the same photo—but something was wrong. The image had changed. The background was darker. The edges blurred. And Ken’s eyes—his eyes looked directly at her now.
The longer she stared, the more certain she became that the photo was alive, as if it had captured not a moment, but a warning. She reached out and touched the glass. Cold. Then she heard the lock turn.
She got up, flicked on the light. The room was empty. The journal was on the desk—open. A new entry had been written: “You’ll understand when it’s over.” Her breath hitched. The handwriting looked like hers—but off. The loops were longer, the letters slanted differently, as if someone had been mimicking her hand.
She closed the journal slowly and backed toward the door. That’s when she saw him—Ken—standing in the hallway, motionless, watching her. “How long have you been there?” she whispered. He tilted his head slightly. “You were talking in your sleep.” “What did I say?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You asked me to stay forever.” Her pulse skipped. “Ken… what’s happening to us?” He took a slow step toward her. “Maybe we’re just finally listening.” She didn’t ask what he meant. She couldn’t. The air between them was sharp with something she couldn’t name.
The next day, she found another note. This one was on the bathroom floor, written in soap on a piece of mirror glass: “This will end in silence.” When she looked up, the rest of the mirror had cracked.
By the fourth day, the notes began disappearing faster than she could find them. She’d see one, blink, and it would be gone. Once, she swore she saw Ken burning something in the sink—but when she asked, he only smiled.
That night, she checked the drawer again. The journal was gone completely. She turned to him, standing by the window, looking out at nothing. “Ken, where is it?” He didn’t answer.
“Where’s my journal?” He finally turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the outline of a smile. “There was too much noise in it,” he said quietly. “We don’t need more noise.” Then he walked past her, brushing her shoulder lightly as he did, leaving the faint chill of his touch behind.
That evening, Lilian sat alone on the couch, watching the city lights flicker through the blinds. She thought about calling someone—her mother, Daniel, anyone—but every time she reached for the phone, a strange thought stopped her: What if they hear him too?
The apartment was utterly still. Even the hum in the walls was gone. Then, just as she started to close her eyes, a sound came from the kitchen—a soft click, like a pen cap snapping shut. She got up slowly and walked toward the sound. On the counter lay a fresh note, neatly written on white paper. She read it aloud in a trembling voice: “Stop writing. The story isn’t yours anymore.” The ink was still wet. And next to it sat her pen.
The city outside was smothered in rain. Each drop hit the apartment windows like a whispered warning, a steady rhythm that made the night feel endless. The note on the counter was still there, its words soaking into her mind: “Stop writing. The story isn’t yours anymore.”
Lilian stood staring at it for a long time, her heartbeat matching the rain’s pulse. She touched the paper. The ink smeared under her thumb. Fresh—too fresh. Someone had written it minutes ago. “Ken?” she called. Silence.
She walked through the apartment, every step deliberate, controlled. The lights flickered slightly, humming like nervous breath. The bathroom door was closed. She pushed it open—empty. The shower curtain hung limp and wet. She checked the bedroom—his jacket was gone. The window was slightly open, the curtain swaying in the damp wind.
She wanted to believe he’d stepped out. A walk. A drive. Anything ordinary. But ordinary didn’t exist between them anymore. When she turned back toward the living room, she froze. The photo. The wedding photo was back on the wall, perfectly straight this time. Her breath caught. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Her pulse hammered in her neck as she stepped closer. At first, she thought it was the same photo—but something was wrong. The image had changed. The background was darker. The edges blurred. And Ken’s eyes—his eyes looked directly at her now.
The longer she stared, the more certain she became that the photo was alive, as if it had captured not a moment, but a warning. She reached out and touched the glass. Cold. Then she heard the lock turn.
