Vincent stirred awake, the faint glow of the laptop screen the only source of light in the dim room. He blinked, disoriented, as the edges of his consciousness caught up to him. His neck ached, stiff from the awkward position he’d been in. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep.
The chair creaked as he shifted, his body protesting the sudden movement. The laptop sat on the desk in front of him, its screen darkened in energy-saving mode. The faint hum of the fan was the only indication that it was still on. His first thought was of the download. Did it finish?
With a groggy swipe at the touchpad, the screen flickered to life, showing the completed installation of the Pathway app. He blinked at it, trying to remember what he’d been thinking when he downloaded it. His thoughts felt fuzzy, like they were wrapped in cotton.
The room was quiet, comfortably so. A soft melody drifted through the air, faint and distant, like the kind of music you’d expect to hear in an old waiting room. It was soothing, almost hypnotic. Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting the sound settle over him.
The radio. Of course. He must’ve left it on. He remembered tuning it to static earlier, a nostalgic nod to his favorite horror games. Maybe it had found a signal. It wasn’t impossible, though it was rare to pick up much of anything on the ancient device.
He glanced toward the windowsill where the radio sat. The small machine looked as unassuming as ever, its faint red power light glowing steadily in the dimness.
For the first time in what felt like days, Vincent let himself relax. The tension that had coiled in his chest over the past few days began to loosen. The countdown, the forums, the landlord, even the strange light on his camera, all of it faded into the background for now.
He stretched, his arms reaching toward the ceiling, and let out a long yawn. The music was comforting in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. It wasn’t overly cheerful or jarring, just... there, like a gentle presence in the room.
Standing, he moved toward the kitchenette, grabbing a glass of water. The faint clink of the glass against the counter seemed unnaturally loud compared to the steady hum of the radio. As he sipped, his gaze wandered to the crowbar on the windowsill, then to the laptop, and finally to his phone sitting beside it.
It wasn’t until he’d nearly finished his water that a thought began to form, vague and distant at first, like something his mind was trying to avoid. The radio was on... but he hadn’t tuned it to any station.
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. His brow furrowed as the thought settled in, more insistent now. The last time he’d checked, there had been nothing but static on that frequency. There was no station on that channel.
Vincent set the glass down carefully, the faint sound of it meeting the counter drowned out by the realization crawling through his mind. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if speeding up might provoke... something.
He walked back toward the desk, his eyes locked on the radio. The music continued, soft and unobtrusive, like it belonged there. But it didn’t. It couldn’t.
He reached out and turned the tuning dial slowly, watching the needle move across the band. The music didn’t waver. No matter where he turned it, the sound remained constant, unchanging.
His hand hovered over the power switch. For a moment, he hesitated, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Then he flicked it off.
The music stopped instantly.
The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy in a way that made him acutely aware of his own breathing. He stared at the radio for a long moment, waiting for... what? For it to turn back on? For something else to happen?
Nothing did.
He exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly. It was just a fluke. Maybe the old radio was picking up interference, or maybe it was malfunctioning. He told himself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t worth dwelling on.
But as he moved back toward the desk, his eyes drifted to the phone.
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"1 Day: 7 Hours: 23 Minutes."
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Vincent froze, staring at the glowing numbers on the screen. He blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours had passed since he’d last looked at it.
But that didn’t make sense. He’d only been asleep for a few hours, four or five at most. He was sure of it. His body didn’t feel like it had been out for that long.
The knot in his stomach tightened as he tried to rationalize it. Maybe the phone’s clock was glitching. Maybe the countdown was broken. But even as the thoughts formed, he didn’t believe them. The numbers were precise, unwavering. They felt... deliberate.
He reached for the phone, his fingers brushing against its cool surface. His hand trembled slightly as he picked it up, staring at the countdown as if it might explain itself.
“Sixteen hours,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible in the heavy silence.
His gaze flicked to the radio again, its red power light dark now. He thought about turning it back on, but the idea made his skin crawl. The music had felt comforting before, but now it seemed intrusive, like it didn’t belong.
Vincent set the phone down and rubbed his temples. His thoughts felt scattered, his sense of time distorted. He needed to ground himself, to do something tangible to shake off the unease creeping over him.
He walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The shock of it helped, if only slightly. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his tired eyes and unshaven face looking back at him.
“Get a grip,” he muttered, his voice firm despite the unease twisting in his chest.
But the silence in the apartment was louder now, more oppressive than it had been before. He couldn’t stop thinking about the music, the radio, the countdown. None of it made sense.
He returned to the desk, his eyes darting between the laptop and the phone. The app was still installed, the icon sitting innocuously on the screen. He’d planned to transfer it to his tablet earlier, and now the idea felt more urgent.
Vincent grabbed the tablet, connecting it to the laptop with a cable. The process was quick, the file transferring seamlessly. He felt a faint sense of relief as the progress bar completed. At least this part of the plan was going smoothly.
With the app safely on the tablet, he powered down the laptop and set it aside. The phone’s glowing numbers still taunted him from the desk, but he ignored it for now.
He picked up the tablet, turning it over in his hands. The device was newer than most of his tech, sleek and responsive. It felt more secure somehow, like a shield against the growing strangeness around him.
Vincent sank into his chair, the tablet resting on his lap. The apartment was quiet again, but the silence no longer felt comforting. It felt like a weight pressing down on him, each second stretching longer than it should.
He glanced toward the radio one more time, its darkened power light a stark contrast to the faint glow of the tablet in his hands. The memory of the music lingered in his mind, soft and insistent, like a melody he couldn’t quite shake.
What the hell is happening?
Vincent sat at the desk, staring blankly at the faint glow of the tablet in front of him. The dim light from the device cast soft shadows across his cluttered apartment, exaggerating the curves and edges of every object in the room. He felt a deep sense of unease but couldn’t quite pinpoint its source.
The soft hum of the tablet was the only sound, aside from his own breathing. Everything felt unnaturally still. Yet, as his eyes wandered over the room, there was a subtle wrongness in the way it looked, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The crowbar was still on the windowsill, where he had left it earlier. At least, he thought it was. It seemed slightly skewed, angled toward the far end of the sill, as though it had been shifted. He dismissed the thought almost immediately. You’re just imagining things, he told himself, turning his attention back to the tablet.
The app sat there, its sleek, minimalist icon almost mocking in its normalcy. He resisted the urge to open it, not yet ready to confront whatever guidance, or lack thereof, it might offer. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
As he looked around the apartment, taking stock of his surroundings, something caught his eye. On the table in front of him was a small orange pill bottle. It wasn’t his, or at least, he didn’t think it was. His name was printed neatly on the label, but the medication name was unfamiliar: a long, unpronounceable word that he stumbled over in his head as he tried to sound it out.
“Flu… fluox… something,” he muttered, picking up the bottle and turning it over in his hands. The instructions were standard: take one pill daily with food. But what stood out most was the purpose listed on the label: for hallucinations and disordered thinking.
He frowned, staring at the bottle as if it might offer an explanation. Hallucinations? Disordered thinking? None of it made sense. He wasn’t taking medication, he wasn’t even prescribed anything, as far as he could remember.
Vincent turned the bottle in his hands again, his thumb brushing against the smooth plastic. His unease deepened. The idea that these pills existed, that they were apparently his, didn’t sit right. How had they gotten here? Who had prescribed them?
As he set the bottle back down, his gaze drifted to a small notebook lying beside it. It was open to a page filled with his handwriting, at least, it looked like his. The words were neat but slightly more deliberate than he remembered his handwriting being, as though the writer had been focusing carefully on forming each letter.
He picked up the notebook, flipping back a few pages. The entries were detailed and chronological, recounting everything he’d experienced over the past few days. The countdown. The forums. The strange message that disappeared. Even the landlord’s visit was recorded with unnerving precision.
Vincent’s stomach twisted as he flipped further, finding entries he didn’t recognize.
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"10:14 PM: Knocking at the door again. Did not answer.
12:22 AM: Another knock. Same pattern as before. Three sharp raps, followed by a softer one. Ignored it.
2:37 AM: Checked the peephole, nobody there. The radio is making sounds again."
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The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he read, his fingers tightening around the edges of the notebook. He didn’t remember hearing knocks. He didn’t remember writing any of this.
There was more: notes about lost time. One entry mentioned a gap of four hours where Vincent had apparently gone completely unresponsive, staring blankly at the wall while the radio played faint, garbled music. Another detailed a supposed consultation with a doctor, conducted through his tablet.
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"1:15 PM: Spoke with Dr. Ellison about hallucinations and time lapses. Suggested I start medication immediately. Prescribed fluoxetine. Delivery confirmed."
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Vincent slammed the notebook shut, his breathing quickening. He stared down at the pill bottle on the table, his mind racing. He didn’t remember any of this. He didn’t remember contacting a doctor or agreeing to take medication.
“This is bullshit,” he muttered, pushing back from the desk. His voice sounded hollow in the oppressive silence of the apartment.
He stood, pacing toward the kitchenette and back again, his hands running through his hair as he tried to make sense of what he’d just read. The bottle and the notebook felt like intrusions, alien objects that didn’t belong in his space.
As he paced, his eyes flicked over his surroundings. The apartment was as familiar as ever, yet something about it felt... off.
The game cases on the shelf, which he had painstakingly dusted and arranged earlier, were slightly out of order. A single case, a survival horror game he hadn’t played in years, was tilted forward, just enough to break the perfect alignment.
The dishes he had washed and stacked in the sink now had water droplets clinging to their edges, as though they had been used and rinsed hastily. He didn’t remember doing that.
The flashlight he had clipped to his belt earlier was now sitting on the counter beside the first-aid kit. He stared at it for a moment, trying to remember if he had moved it there. Nothing came to mind.
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The inconsistencies were small, almost insignificant, but they nagged at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. It’s nothing. Just your imagination.
But then there was the pill bottle. The notebook. Those weren’t nothing.
Vincent sat back down at the desk, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up the pill bottle again. He turned it over in his hands, reading the label once more. Fluoxetine. Hallucinations. Disordered thinking.
He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust any of this.
A knock at the door made him jump, the sound sharp and precise. His heart leapt into his throat as the words from the forums echoed in his mind: Do not answer when it knocks.
He froze, gripping the pill bottle tightly in his hand. The knock came again, softer this time, almost hesitant.
Vincent’s eyes darted to the notebook. He opened it to the most recent entry, his breath hitching as he read the words scrawled there:
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"6:48 PM: Knocking at the door. Do not answer. Ignore it."
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He checked the time on his tablet.
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6:48 PM.
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His hands trembled as he closed the notebook, his gaze locked on the door. The knock came again, faint but insistent, sending a chill down his spine.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. The silence pressed in around him, heavier than ever.
When the knocking finally stopped, the relief that flooded through him was short-lived. The unease remained, settling deep in his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake.
Vincent stared at the bottle of pills in his hand, the long, clinical name fluoxetine glaring back at him in crisp black text. The room was still, the silence punctuated only by the faint hum of his tablet sitting on the desk. The idea of taking the pills churned uneasily in his stomach. Before he did anything, he needed answers.
He placed the bottle on the desk with deliberate care, then powered on his tablet. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he opened the browser. His fingers hesitated above the keyboard for a moment before he began typing, each keystroke feeling louder than it should have been in the stillness of the room.
"Fluoxetine uses."
The search engine loaded quickly, presenting a long list of results. Vincent scanned the headlines, his eyes catching on words like depression, anxiety disorders, and OCD. Nowhere did it mention hallucinations. He frowned, clicking on the first link, a medical website that provided an overview of the drug.
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"Fluoxetine is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI) commonly prescribed for depression, anxiety, and related conditions. It works by increasing the levels of serotonin in the brain, which can improve mood and emotional stability."
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There was no mention of psychosis, hallucinations, or anything remotely related to what the bottle claimed it was prescribed for. Vincent’s frown deepened. If fluoxetine wasn’t meant to treat hallucinations, why had it been prescribed to him for that purpose?
He clicked back to the search results, digging deeper. Every article and resource he skimmed echoed the same general information. Fluoxetine was for mood disorders, not hallucinations.
His unease grew as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the glowing screen. This felt wrong. He turned the pill bottle over in his hand again, the faint rattle of the pills inside making his stomach twist.
“Okay,” he muttered, setting the bottle down once more. “What about Dr. Ellison?”
He typed the name into the search bar: "Dr. Ellison psychiatrist."
The results were sparse. A few listings for unrelated professionals came up, but nothing about a psychiatrist named Dr. Ellison in his area, or anywhere else, for that matter. He added his city to the search, narrowing the results further, but the outcome was the same.
Nothing.
Vincent leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he scrolled through the results with growing frustration. No credentials, no clinic, no reviews, nothing to suggest that Dr. Ellison even existed.
He paused, his mind racing. If this doctor wasn’t real, then who had prescribed the pills? And why? His gaze drifted back to the notebook, the neat handwriting staring back at him like a taunt.
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"1:15 PM: Spoke with Dr. Ellison about hallucinations and time lapses. Suggested I start medication immediately. Prescribed fluoxetine. Delivery confirmed."
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The entry was maddeningly specific, yet Vincent couldn’t recall any of it. He picked up the notebook, flipping through its pages again, searching for some clue, some connection that might make sense of it all.
His pulse quickened as he turned the pages, each one detailing moments he could vaguely remember interspersed with events he was sure hadn’t happened. The descriptions of lost time, the knocks at the door, and now the medication, it all felt like someone else’s life being stitched into his.
He set the notebook down with a heavy sigh, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. The faint glow of the tablet screen seemed harsher now, its light casting deep shadows across the room.
Vincent’s gaze drifted to the pill bottle again. The sight of it made his skin crawl. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand as if it might reveal some hidden truth. The label was ordinary enough, complete with his name, the dosage instructions, and the prescribing doctor’s name: Dr. Ellison.
“This doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the tablet and the soft creak of his chair as he leaned back. He stared at the pill bottle for what felt like an eternity, his thoughts circling back to the same question over and over: What’s real?
Vincent set the bottle down again, his hands trembling slightly. The idea of taking one of the pills was out of the question. He didn’t trust them, and he certainly didn’t trust whoever, or whatever, had prescribed them.
He closed the browser, the screen going dark as he powered off the tablet. The silence in the room seemed to grow heavier, the weight of it pressing down on him like a physical force.
For a moment, Vincent considered throwing the pills away, getting rid of the notebook, and trying to forget any of this had happened. But the thought was fleeting. He knew he couldn’t just ignore it.
Instead, he sat there, staring at the objects in front of him, the pill bottle, the notebook, the tablet, as if they might somehow offer answers.
Vincent’s hands hovered over the keyboard of his tablet, his mind spinning in tight, uncomfortable circles. His searches for answers, about fluoxetine, about Dr. Ellison, had led nowhere. The notebook, the pills, the countdown… it all felt like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together, yet he couldn’t escape the nagging sense that something was closing in on him.
The silence in the room pressed against him, heavy and intrusive. He glanced at the pill bottle on the desk. It hadn’t moved, but its presence felt like an accusation. The smooth plastic caught the faint glow of the tablet screen, reflecting a distorted version of his own face back at him.
Vincent turned his attention to the notebook, its leather-bound cover sitting innocuously beside the pills. He opened it again, flipping past the detailed accounts of his previous days, each entry feeling like it was written by a version of himself he didn’t remember being.
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"7:34 PM: Sitting at the desk. Reviewing entries. Feeling increasingly paranoid. 7:47 PM: Radio will turn on again."
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He blinked, staring at the words. Will turn on? His eyes darted to the clock on his tablet. It read 7:42 PM.
His chest tightened. It was ridiculous. It had to be. The entries couldn’t predict the future; they were just notes, written by... someone. Him, maybe. But not in the way he knew himself.
He flipped back a page, scanning for anything else that might stand out. There it was, neatly scrawled between his usual accounts of lost time and knocking:
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"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
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Vincent let out a shaky laugh, though there was no humor in it. “This is insane,” he muttered, his voice too loud in the suffocating quiet. He pushed the notebook aside, running a hand through his hair. His breathing felt uneven, shallow, and he fought the urge to close the tablet and shove everything off the desk.
He was about to stand when the radio crackled to life.
The sound made him jump, his heart slamming against his ribs. His head whipped toward the windowsill, where the little radio sat glowing faintly, its power light casting a soft red hue. It wasn’t music this time.
Static filled the room, soft at first, then growing louder, sharper. Beneath it, faint and almost imperceptible, was a voice.
Vincent froze, straining to hear. The voice was garbled, like it was coming from a bad recording played too fast. He caught fragments, words he couldn’t make sense of:
“... not alone... waiting... time’s almost, ”
The voice cut off abruptly, leaving only the steady hum of static behind.
The clock on his tablet blinked over to 7:47 PM.
Vincent stared at the radio, his skin crawling. His mind grasped for an explanation, but nothing stuck. Interference, he thought weakly. Just interference.
But his gaze drifted back to the notebook, now half-open on the desk. He flipped to the most recent entry, scanning the words again.
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"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
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The static from the radio seemed louder now, buzzing in his ears like an insect too close to his head. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk as he tried to steady his breathing.
“It’s just a coincidence,” he whispered to himself. “That’s all. Just a, ”
The sound of a heavy thud cut him off.
It came from the kitchen, sharp and deliberate, like something heavy hitting the floor.
Vincent froze, his blood turning to ice. His mind raced, replaying the sound over and over, trying to make sense of it. He hadn’t been in the kitchen. Nothing should have moved.
He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him. The crowbar was still on the windowsill, within arm’s reach. He grabbed it without hesitation, the cold metal grounding him as he turned toward the kitchen.
The apartment was dark beyond the faint glow of the tablet and radio. Shadows pooled in the corners, deep and impenetrable, making the small space feel cavernous.
Vincent took a step forward, then another, each movement deliberate and cautious. His grip on the crowbar tightened as he reached the edge of the kitchenette. The overhead light flickered as he reached for the switch, and he hesitated, his breath catching.
The light clicked on, flooding the room with a harsh, artificial glow.
Nothing was out of place.
The dishes he had stacked earlier were still in the sink. The counters were bare except for his half-empty glass of water. The trash can sat in the corner, undisturbed.
Vincent scanned the room, his heart pounding in his chest. The thud had been real, he was sure of it. But the kitchen looked exactly as it should.
He turned back toward the desk, his gaze flicking to the notebook again. The entry stared back at him, taunting.
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"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
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He slammed the notebook shut, his breathing ragged. His knuckles were white against the crowbar’s handle as he moved back to the desk, his legs unsteady beneath him.
Vincent stood frozen by the kitchenette, the crowbar gripped tightly in his hands. His heart raced in his chest, every sound amplified in the deafening silence that had followed the thud. He strained his ears, his eyes darting over the room, searching for anything, anything, out of place.
Nothing moved.
The harsh fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting sharp, sterile shadows across the counters and sink. The dishes gleamed with a faint wetness where he’d stacked them earlier, a perfect echo of his meticulous routine.
He waited, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every second that passed. But the kitchen remained stubbornly normal, every detail as it should be.
Vincent let out a slow breath, the sound trembling as it left his lips. “It’s fine,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing’s here. Just… nothing.”
But his voice sounded hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears.
He turned away from the kitchenette, stepping carefully back toward the desk. The glow of the tablet seemed brighter now, its light almost harsh against the surrounding darkness. The radio hummed faintly, its red power light blinking steadily.
Something felt different.
Vincent placed the crowbar on the desk, his fingers trembling slightly as he rubbed at his temples. The events of the last few minutes churned in his mind, the radio, the notebook, the thud in the kitchen, but none of it seemed to add up. His breathing slowed as he tried to focus, grounding himself in the normalcy of the objects around him.
His gaze flicked to the notebook. It was still where he had left it, closed and sitting neatly beside the tablet. He reached for it slowly, almost reluctantly, flipping it open to the most recent page.
The paper was blank.
Vincent blinked, his stomach twisting. He flipped to the next page, then the next, his fingers moving faster with each turn.
Blank. Every page was blank.
His breath hitched as he stared at the pristine white sheets, the neat lines unmarred by ink or pressure. The entries, the detailed accounts of lost time, the predictions of future events, were gone.
The crowbar suddenly felt too heavy, too real. He pushed it farther away as if distancing himself from it would bring clarity. His gaze darted to the pill bottle, but it wasn’t on the desk anymore.
“Where…?” he started, his voice barely above a whisper. He scanned the immediate area, expecting to see it on the floor, or maybe tucked behind the laptop. But the desk was clear, unnervingly so.
The pill bottle was gone.
Vincent’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stepped back, his head turning slowly to take in the rest of the room. The radio was still there, its red light glowing steadily. The tablet displayed its search screen, the words “fluoxetine uses” and “Dr. Ellison psychiatrist” glaring back at him in the otherwise empty browser.
For a moment, he thought he could hear something, just faintly, on the edge of his perception. A whisper, a shuffle, or maybe just the sound of his own breath echoing in the room.
The radio clicked suddenly, the static returning in a soft, insistent hum.
Vincent spun to face it, his pulse quickening again. But the sound wasn’t garbled this time, nor was it accompanied by music or voices. It was just static, steady and unobtrusive, like it had been when he’d first left it on.
He hesitated, staring at the radio as if it might offer an explanation. The tension in the air seemed to dissipate slowly, the oppressive weight he had felt earlier giving way to a strange, almost serene calm.
The room looked normal.
The radio was just static.
The notebook was blank.
The bottle wasn’t there.
Vincent sank into his chair, his body feeling heavier than it had moments before. He rubbed his hands over his face, groaning softly. “What the hell is happening?”
He looked down at the tablet again. The search bar was the only concrete proof he had left. He tapped the screen, scrolling through the search results for a moment, though he wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find. The links were the same as they had been earlier, generic articles about SSRIs and mental health, nothing that hinted at the madness he’d been experiencing.
The longer he stared, the more absurd it all seemed. The knocks, the notebook, the pills… had any of it been real? Or was his mind finally starting to betray him?
The radio’s static filled the room like a soft, familiar blanket. It wasn’t comforting exactly, but it was better than silence.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. Every muscle in his body ached with the weight of tension and uncertainty. He wanted to believe it was over, that whatever had been happening was just some stress-induced hallucination, a trick of his overactive imagination.
But as the static hummed in the background, Vincent couldn’t shake the feeling that the room wasn’t as empty as it seemed.