The wooden floor was warm beneath him.
Rakan lay sprawled on his stomach, chin propped against his forearm, eyes half-lidded as the TV flickered before him. The low hum of the screen buzzed against his ears, the glow casting pale light over the room. It was an old show, something his mother liked to put on in the background—scenes shifting between muted colors, voices rising and falling, laughter slipping through the speakers like echoes from another life.
He wasn't really watching.
His mind drifted, half-rooted in the present, half-floating elsewhere, the wooden floor solid against his ribs but his thoughts slipping through the cracks.
Outside, the world pressed on—cars rolling down the street, the distant chatter of pedestrians, the wind shifting lazily through the trees.
Inside, everything was still.
Then—
"Rakan!"
His mother's voice cut through the lull, bright and warm, carrying from the kitchen.
He blinked, slow, as if surfacing from water.
"Lunch is ready," she called again. "Come eat before you have to leave!"
He stayed there for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle, then sighed, pushing himself up with the slow reluctance of someone moving through molasses.
The floor creaked beneath his feet as he stretched, arms reaching up, back arching until his spine popped. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, yawning, before trudging towards the kitchen, the smell of miso and simmering vegetables thick in the air.
His mother stood by the stove, ladling soup into bowls, her apron tied neatly around her waist.
"You were going to sleep on the floor again, weren't you?" she said without turning.
Rakan slumped into a chair. "Maybe."
She huffed, amused, and set a bowl in front of him.
"Eat up," she said.
He picked up his chopsticks, rolling them between his fingers before digging in, the warmth of the broth settling in his chest.
For a while, they ate in companionable silence, the soft clink of dishes filling the space between them.
Then—
"Hey," Rakan said, quiet, almost hesitant.
His mother looked up.
He didn't meet her eyes.
"What was Dad like?"
The question hung there, suspended between them.
A pause.
The kind that stretched just a little too long.
Then—
His mother exhaled, soft.
There was something in her eyes—something distant, folded away, kept beneath the surface.
"He was…" She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Kind."
A simple word.
A quiet truth.
But something about it felt heavier than it should.
Rakan watched her, watched the way her fingers curled slightly around the edge of her bowl, the way her gaze flickered—just for a moment—to the window, as if looking at something that wasn't there.
Then, just as quickly, the moment passed.
She blinked, the softness in her expression smoothing back into something lighter.
"You have his eyes, you know," she said.
Rakan didn't know what to say to that.
Didn't know if there was anything to say.
So he just nodded, turning his focus back to his food.
The conversation shifted after that, meandering back to safer ground.
They finished eating in silence.
Then, as he stood, gathering the dishes, he muttered, "I'll clean up."
His mother glanced at him, amused.
"Trying to earn points before you leave for work?"
"Maybe."
She laughed, shaking her head, and Rakan took the dishes to the sink, rolling up his sleeves as he turned on the tap.
The water rushed over his hands, warm and steady, the scent of soap rising as he scrubbed the plates, the rhythmic sound of ceramic against ceramic filling the kitchen.
Then—
Something slipped.
A small clatter.
One of the chopsticks rolled off the counter, hitting the floor with a tiny, hollow sound.
He turned, just slightly, bending to pick it up—
And then—
The feeling came.
A slow, creeping thing.
A shift in the air, a thread pulling tight beneath his skin, a sensation pressing against the walls of his mind like something knocking from the inside.
The world stilled.
A breath held.
A moment stretched thin.
And then—
The faintest glimmer at the edge of his vision.
He turned back—
And a single cup was floating.
Suspended in the air, just above the sink.
Rakan's breath caught.
His fingers clenched around the chopstick.
The cup didn't move, didn't fall—just hovered, weightless, untouched.
His mind stuttered, logic scrambling for an answer, but nothing made sense, nothing fit.
His skin prickled, the odd sensation curling tighter in his bones, his heartbeat thudding slow and heavy in his chest.
Then—
The door creaked open.
The moment snapped.
The cup plummeted.
Glass shattered.
Rakan jolted, spinning around—
His mother stood in the doorway.
She blinked, glancing at the sink, at the fragments of the broken cup.
Then, she smiled, warm and unfazed.
"Be careful with the plates," she said, stepping forward, kneeling to pick up the larger shards.
Rakan didn't answer.
Didn't move.
His pulse hammered against his ribs, the echo of what just happened still thrumming through his skull.
His mother straightened, giving him a curious look.
"Did I scare you?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shook his head.
His hands were still shaking.
His mother exhaled, amused.
"You should get ready for work," she said, tossing the broken pieces into the bin.
Rakan swallowed.
Nodded.
The weight of the moment lingered, pressing against his skin, but he forced himself to move, his mind stuck on one thing, and one thing alone—
That feeling.
That strange, crawling, living feeling beneath his skin.
The same one from before.
Rakan's hands still felt unsteady as he wiped them dry.
The broken cup was gone, swept away, discarded, as if it had never been there in the first place. His mother had moved on from the moment so effortlessly—smiling, unfazed—while he still felt it pressing against him like an echo that refused to fade.
That feeling. That strange, heavy presence.
Still lingering beneath his skin.
Still curling at the edges of his mind.
He exhaled, slow, shaking it off as he left the kitchen, climbing the stairs two at a time. The air shifted the higher he went, cooler, quieter, the sounds of the house dulling into a soft hush.
At the top of the stairs, his feet slowed.
His door was just ahead, slightly ajar, his worn-out backpack still slouched in the corner from when he'd thrown it there last night.
But he didn't move toward it.
Because just before his room—just off to the side—stood another door.
A door that should have been shut.
That had always been shut.
But now, it was open.
Just enough to see the dark sliver of space beyond it.
His father's room.
The one his mother never spoke of.
The one no one entered.
Rakan swallowed.
The air here felt different.
Thicker.
Like something untouched by time.
The wooden floor creaked softly beneath him as he stepped closer, fingers grazing the edge of the door, hesitating for just a moment before pushing it open.
The hinges groaned, the space yawning wide before him.
It was empty.
No—hollow.
Bare walls.
An unmade futon shoved to the side.
A desk with nothing on it but dust and forgotten years.
It didn't look like a lived-in space. It looked like someone had been on the verge of leaving—like a person who had started packing but never finished.
There were no personal touches. No signs of a life once lived.
Just absence.
Just emptiness.
And yet—
Rakan felt something.
A strange weight. A whisper of something left behind.
His gaze swept the room, slow, careful, searching for what exactly, he didn't know—
Until his eyes landed on the desk.
And the small, unremarkable box sitting on top of it.
It was plain—wooden, old, the kind of thing someone might overlook a thousand times without a second thought.
But the moment he saw it, his chest tightened.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Like recognition.
Like déjà vu.
Like something at the edge of his memory, blurred and distant, just out of reach.
His fingers brushed the lid.
Hesitated.
Then lifted it.
Inside, lying in the center of a folded cloth, was a necklace.
Thin chain. A pendant of some kind.
He picked it up carefully, letting it dangle from his fingers, the weight of it settling in his palm.
The metal was cold.
The design—
His breath caught.
He knew this symbol.
Not by name. Not from memory.
But from somewhere deeper.
Somewhere buried in his bones.
It was simple, but strange—an intricate shape, twisting in a way that almost made it seem like it was shifting even as he stared at it.
Something about it made his skin prickle.
Like a dream he couldn't remember but had always carried.
Like something that had been waiting for him to find it.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
The air in the room felt heavier.
And that feeling—that feeling—
The one from the kitchen.
The one from before.
It was back.
Worse.
Stronger.
Crawling beneath his skin, pooling in his stomach, sinking into his bones.
Like something was watching.
Like something had noticed.
The wooden floor beneath him seemed to shift, his breath uneven, the edges of his vision hazy and—
"Rakan?"
The voice nearly made him jump.
His mother.
Just outside.
Her footsteps were soft, her presence warm, familiar, grounding.
The moment shattered.
The feeling vanished.
Rakan inhaled sharply, his fingers clenching around the necklace.
"Yeah?" he called back, forcing his voice to sound normal.
"Your shift starts soon."
Right.
His job.
His normal life.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to move.
He glanced at the necklace one last time before slipping it into his pocket, feeling the weight of it press against him as he turned, stepping out of the room—
And shutting the door behind him.
Rakan changed into his work uniform without thinking.
His mind was elsewhere.
The necklace's weight was still there, pressed against his thigh through his pocket. It was small, barely noticeable, but it felt heavy somehow. Like it had rooted itself to him.
Like it belonged there.
He shoved the thought away, running a hand through his hair as he glanced at the clock.
He was going to be late.
The walk to work was uneventful—familiar streets, the chatter of passing voices, the distant hum of traffic. Everything felt the same as it always did.
And yet, nothing felt the same at all.
His senses felt heightened. The world sharper, clearer, as if he were seeing it through some new lens. Every rustle of wind, every flickering streetlamp, every distant murmur of conversation—it all felt too present. Too real.
Like something was just beyond his reach.
Like something was waiting.
By the time he clocked in, he had pushed it all down.
Work was work.
A shift spent doing the same mindless tasks he always did.
Stocking shelves. Taking orders. Wiping down counters.
It passed in a blur, the minutes melting into hours until—
"Thanks, good work today," his manager called as he clocked out.
Rakan nodded, offering a lazy wave as he stepped outside.
The world was melting.
Rakan stepped out of the small convenience store, the glass door clicking shut behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, exhaling slow. The air was thick, clinging to his skin like the last breath of summer, carrying with it the scent of asphalt, the distant tinge of car exhaust, the faintest trace of frying oil from the ramen shop two blocks down.
Above, the sky stretched wide and bruised, the sun sinking low, spilling lazy streaks of tangerine and violet across the clouds. A single contrail split the sky like a thread pulled loose.
He let his head tilt back, eyes tracing the shapes of things.
This time of day always felt strange to him—something liminal, caught between the dying light and the creeping dark. Not quite night, not fully day. Something in-between.
Something that didn't belong.
He didn't know why he thought that.
Didn't know why the moment felt stretched too thin, the edges of the world blurred like a fading memory.
Maybe he was just tired.
Rakan rolled his shoulders, adjusting the strap of his bag. The uniform shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat after hours spent under the fluorescent lights of the store, shelving stock, scanning barcodes, listening to the dull chime of the register, the shuffle of customers' feet against the linoleum floor. The monotony of it was grounding. Familiar.
But now, stepping out into the world again, there was something off about the air.
It pressed in, thick and unmoving.
Like the breath before a storm.
He started walking.
The streets were quieter now, the usual rush of the city tapering off into something softer. A couple of people passed by—a man on a bike, a woman carrying grocery bags, a group of students in uniforms heading the opposite way, their voices low, fading as they turned the corner.
Then, bit by bit, sound trickled away.
The distant hum of cars.
The chirp of unseen cicadas.
The wind through the leaves.
Gone.
Rakan's steps faltered.
The world had gone silent.
Not the kind of silence that came with the evening, not the quiet lull of the city winding down.
This was something else.
Something unnatural.
He swallowed, his pulse suddenly too loud in his ears.
Then—
The feeling came.
A slow, creeping thing, threading beneath his skin.
That same wrongness, thick and nauseating, pressing against his ribs, curling around his spine.
Like before.
Like in the kitchen, when the cup—
Something shifted.
Not in front of him. Not behind him.
But everywhere.
The air rippled, just slightly.
Like a held breath being exhaled.
And then—
It was there.
Standing at the end of the empty street.
Not appearing. Not stepping forward.
Just there, where it hadn't been a second ago.
He tried to see it.
Because it wasn't something he could truly comprehend.
It stood just ahead, in the middle of the empty street.
Not a person.
Not a shadow.
But something wrong.
Something shifting, flickering, its form unraveling and reweaving like threads coming undone.
something that didn't belong in this world, struggling to exist in it.
It had no clear shape.
And yet—it had eyes.
Or something like them.
Staring.
Right at him.
Rakan's breath caught.
His body locked up, every instinct screaming at him—move, move, move—but his feet wouldn't budge, as if the weight of the moment had pinned him in place.
The thing didn't move.
Not at first.
It just stood there, watching.
Except—
It had no eyes.
It had nothing at all.
Not a face, not a shape that made sense.
Its body was wrong.
A twisting, shifting thing, its limbs too long, its form flickering at the edges like static, like something out of focus, like the world itself was rejecting it.
Like it didn't belong.
And yet, it was there.
Existing.
Rakan's breath came sharp, shallow.
The feeling in his bones twisted, curling tighter, pressing against the walls of his skull.
The thing tilted its head—no, not its head, because it had no head, just an absence of one, a dark hollow where a shape should be.
The silence deepened.
And then—
It moved.
Didn't walk.
Didn't run.
Not like a person.
Not even like an animal.
But like something shifting through reality itself, unraveling, reforming, slipping between the cracks of the world as it rushed him.
Just closed the distance.
Faster than his mind could register, the space between them vanished—
And it was right in front of him.
Rakan's body reacted before his mind could.
He staggered back, his heart slamming against his ribs, instincts screaming as the thing closed the distance between them in an instant—
And then—
Pain.
Searing.
White-hot.
Like something unseen had torn through him.
His breath hitched, his body locking up as a sharp, electric shock surged through his limbs.
And then—
That feeling.
The one beneath his skin.
The one that had been waiting.
It exploded.
The world twisted.
Something inside him lurched.
And then—
Everything snapped to black.