The following morning, Ken left early, saying he needed to “clear his head.” Lilian watched him go from the window, feeling both relief and terror. When he was gone, she opened every cupboard, every drawer, searching for the knife. It wasn’t there.
On the table, however, lay the wedding photo. The frame was cracked. Across the glass, written in black ink, were the words: “You can’t move away from what’s inside you.” Her knees gave out. The apartment suddenly felt smaller, the walls closer. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy enough to make her ears ring.
She backed away slowly, her eyes locked on the photo. Then she heard it again — that low hum, the whisper underneath the quiet. It came from the walls. And this time, it was speaking her name.
By the following week, Lilian had stopped trusting paper. It began with one note—then another—and then so many she lost count. The first appeared on the bathroom mirror. She’d stepped out of the shower one morning to find fog covering the glass except for four words traced in clear letters: LEAVE BEFORE NIGHTFALL. Her heart stopped. Steam rose around her as she wiped the glass clean, but the letters stayed. They weren’t written in steam—they were scratched faintly into the surface, as if by something sharp.
She backed away slowly, the towel slipping from her hands. “Ken!” she called. “Ken, come here!” His voice came from the kitchen. “What?” “There’s something on the mirror!”
He appeared in the doorway, hair still messy from sleep. “What are you talking about?” She pointed at the mirror. But when she looked again, it was blank. Smooth. Unmarked. “I—” She swallowed hard. “There were words here.” Ken studied her for a moment. His gaze wasn’t angry; it was worse—tired, heavy, distant. “You need to rest, Lilian.” “I’m not imagining things!” “Maybe not,” he said softly. “But you’re seeing things that aren’t there.” Then he walked away, leaving the faint smell of his cologne and the echo of disbelief behind him.
That night, she found the second note. It was on her bedside table—folded neatly in half. Her name was written on it in her own handwriting. Inside, in the same looping script: “He knows you’re writing.” Her breath caught. She opened her journal drawer—it was open again. The last entry was missing, a clean tear through the page. Her stomach twisted. She ran her fingers through the torn edge, as if she might feel the truth hidden there.
She closed the drawer and looked around the room. The air felt thick, watchful. The silence wasn’t empty anymore; it was breathing.
That night, Ken slept soundly beside her. His arm hung over the side of the bed. His breathing was steady, almost rehearsed. She stared at him for hours, her eyes tracing the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, wondering what kind of man could sleep through the sound of a relationship dying.
At 2:17 a.m., she turned her head—and saw another note pinned to the curtain with a sewing needle. This one said: “Don’t trust the man beside you.” Her scream got stuck in her throat. She tore the paper down and held it under the lamplight. Her handwriting again. The same loops, the same pressure.
She turned to wake him, but Ken was already awake, sitting upright, watching her in the dim light. “Lilian,” he said calmly, “what are you doing?” “Who wrote this?” she whispered, holding out the note. He blinked slowly, as though considering the question. “You did.” She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.” He smiled faintly, his eyes hollow. “Then who else is here?” Before she could answer, he lay back down, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. Within moments, his breathing deepened again, leaving her alone with the note trembling in her hand.
By morning, the note was gone. She searched the nightstand, the floor, the trash can—nothing. Even the pin had vanished. Ken acted as though nothing had happened. He drank his coffee, read the news, and kissed her forehead before leaving for work. But there was something different about his touch—too gentle, too deliberate, as though he were making sure she could still feel him.
After he left, Lilian walked through the apartment, checking every drawer, every cabinet. She found another note, crumpled inside the oven. “He moves things when you sleep.” Her pulse pounded.
On the table, however, lay the wedding photo. The frame was cracked. Across the glass, written in black ink, were the words: “You can’t move away from what’s inside you.” Her knees gave out. The apartment suddenly felt smaller, the walls closer. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy enough to make her ears ring.
She backed away slowly, her eyes locked on the photo. Then she heard it again — that low hum, the whisper underneath the quiet. It came from the walls. And this time, it was speaking her name.
By the following week, Lilian had stopped trusting paper. It began with one note—then another—and then so many she lost count. The first appeared on the bathroom mirror. She’d stepped out of the shower one morning to find fog covering the glass except for four words traced in clear letters: LEAVE BEFORE NIGHTFALL. Her heart stopped. Steam rose around her as she wiped the glass clean, but the letters stayed. They weren’t written in steam—they were scratched faintly into the surface, as if by something sharp.
She backed away slowly, the towel slipping from her hands. “Ken!” she called. “Ken, come here!” His voice came from the kitchen. “What?” “There’s something on the mirror!”
He appeared in the doorway, hair still messy from sleep. “What are you talking about?” She pointed at the mirror. But when she looked again, it was blank. Smooth. Unmarked. “I—” She swallowed hard. “There were words here.” Ken studied her for a moment. His gaze wasn’t angry; it was worse—tired, heavy, distant. “You need to rest, Lilian.” “I’m not imagining things!” “Maybe not,” he said softly. “But you’re seeing things that aren’t there.” Then he walked away, leaving the faint smell of his cologne and the echo of disbelief behind him.
That night, she found the second note. It was on her bedside table—folded neatly in half. Her name was written on it in her own handwriting. Inside, in the same looping script: “He knows you’re writing.” Her breath caught. She opened her journal drawer—it was open again. The last entry was missing, a clean tear through the page. Her stomach twisted. She ran her fingers through the torn edge, as if she might feel the truth hidden there.
She closed the drawer and looked around the room. The air felt thick, watchful. The silence wasn’t empty anymore; it was breathing.
That night, Ken slept soundly beside her. His arm hung over the side of the bed. His breathing was steady, almost rehearsed. She stared at him for hours, her eyes tracing the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, wondering what kind of man could sleep through the sound of a relationship dying.
At 2:17 a.m., she turned her head—and saw another note pinned to the curtain with a sewing needle. This one said: “Don’t trust the man beside you.” Her scream got stuck in her throat. She tore the paper down and held it under the lamplight. Her handwriting again. The same loops, the same pressure.
She turned to wake him, but Ken was already awake, sitting upright, watching her in the dim light. “Lilian,” he said calmly, “what are you doing?” “Who wrote this?” she whispered, holding out the note. He blinked slowly, as though considering the question. “You did.” She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.” He smiled faintly, his eyes hollow. “Then who else is here?” Before she could answer, he lay back down, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. Within moments, his breathing deepened again, leaving her alone with the note trembling in her hand.
By morning, the note was gone. She searched the nightstand, the floor, the trash can—nothing. Even the pin had vanished. Ken acted as though nothing had happened. He drank his coffee, read the news, and kissed her forehead before leaving for work. But there was something different about his touch—too gentle, too deliberate, as though he were making sure she could still feel him.
After he left, Lilian walked through the apartment, checking every drawer, every cabinet. She found another note, crumpled inside the oven. “He moves things when you sleep.” Her pulse pounded.
