I don’t know when you’ll read this, but I can tell you when it started: it was late

evening, the kind where the woods are painted in shades of gray and black, and
shadows seem alive. I was walking alone, drawn deeper into the forest by an
inexplicable compulsion. The air grew colder as I ventured farther from the trail,
the stillness pressing against my ears like a vacuum.

Then, I felt it.

A ripple in reality, not a sound, not a movement—an absence. Where the thing
lurked, the trees seemed to fade, their forms unraveling like smoke. No leaves, no
branches—just void. As it crept closer, the grass beneath my feet withered to
brittle ash. When it leapt at me, there was no sound, no wind—just a crushing,
suffocating silence.

I didn’t feel claws or teeth. Instead, it was as though something reached into me
and pulled, dragging away pieces of my essence. There was no blood, no wounds—just
a deep, raw absence that I couldn’t comprehend. My mind screamed to run, but my
legs hesitated, faltering against the growing weight of exhaustion that didn’t
belong to me.

When I finally broke free and stumbled home, the world felt dimmer. The colors of
my living room seemed dull, the air heavier. I tried to brush it off as exhaustion,
but deep down, I knew something had changed. I could feel it—a gnawing hollowness
within me.

At first, coffee helped. It brought a brief clarity, a reprieve from the creeping
fog that clouded my mind. I convinced myself it was nothing more than stress or an
overactive imagination.

But the signs began to multiply.

The first sign came innocuously enough. My neighbor’s car, a pale silver sedan, was
suddenly a deep crimson. I froze on my front porch, staring at it, the morning air
biting at my skin. Maybe I had misremembered. Maybe the light was playing tricks on
me. But when I questioned the neighbor later, they looked at me like I’d grown a
second head.

“It’s always been red,” they said with a bemused chuckle.

The second incident was harder to dismiss. My boss, a gruff man named Mr. Carter,
greeted me one morning with a cheery “Good morning, Mr. Bell.” The problem? My boss
wasn’t Mr. Bell. And the office layout had changed—desks swapped positions, the
break room relocated. I felt as though I’d wandered into a warped version of
reality. But my coworkers brushed off my questions with mild annoyance, insisting
it had always been that way.

Still, I rationalized. Stress, poor sleep, caffeine jitters—any excuse to avoid the
gnawing dread that something was terribly wrong. But one night, the cracks in my
perception shattered wide open.

It was midnight, and I was brushing my teeth. The fluorescent light above the
bathroom mirror buzzed softly. The toothpaste’s minty bite lingered on my tongue as
I leaned over the sink. When I straightened and glanced at the mirror, the bathroom
was gone.

I stood, toothbrush in hand, in the middle of a barren, desolate field. The sky was
a swirling mass of gray clouds, and an icy wind bit at my exposed skin. My heart
hammered as I turned in frantic circles, looking for a landmark, a road—anything.
The field stretched endlessly in every direction, and the wind carried faint
whispers, words I couldn’t understand.

Then I felt it again. That absence.

It was watching me.

Somewhere behind me, a shadow shifted. I didn’t turn. I couldn’t. Every instinct
screamed that if I faced it, it would claim me entirely. Instead, I shut my eyes
tight and willed myself to wake up. To go back. To escape.

When I opened my eyes, I was back in my bathroom. My knees buckled, and I fell
against the sink, trembling. The mirror was fogged over, but I could still see
faint streaks—five long lines, as if clawed into the glass from the other side.

I tried to focus on my life, to cling to anything normal. That’s when I met Mar.
Her smile was a beacon in the growing storm of my fractured existence. She was
warm, vibrant, grounding. With her, I felt like I could keep the encroaching
madness at bay. But even as I fell for her, the entity wasn’t done with me.

I woke one morning to find her already in the kitchen, unpacking boxes. “What’s all
this?” I asked, groggily rubbing my eyes.

She turned to me with a playful grin. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten! You said I
could move in last week.”

I froze. We had only been on two dates. But as I glanced around, I noticed subtle
changes. The living room had new furniture I didn’t recognize. A photo of us at the
beach—a trip I had no memory of—hung on the wall.

I didn’t argue. I’d learned better by then. Instead, I smiled and helped her
unpack, all the while feeling like I was teetering on the edge of some
incomprehensible abyss.

The changes became more frequent. Sometimes it was a subtle shift—street names
different, coworkers unrecognizable. Other times, it was a jarring leap. I would go
to bed one night and wake up in a future I didn’t recognize. One morning, a little
boy with curly hair and bright eyes tugged on my sleeve and called me “Daddy.”

He was my son.

I stared at the boy, trying to keep my expression neutral while my insides churned
with confusion. He looked up at me expectantly, his wide grin revealing a missing
front tooth.

“Daddy, can we build the rocket today?” he asked, holding up a crumpled instruction
manual for some model kit I didn’t remember buying.

I nodded slowly, my voice trembling as I forced the words out. “Of course, buddy.”

He ran off to gather the parts, leaving me rooted to the spot, trying to process
what had just happened. How much time had I lost this time? Where was Mar? As I
scanned the house, it became painfully clear that years had passed. The furniture
was different, the walls were painted a soft blue, and family photos lined the
hallway—photos of a life I hadn’t lived.

Mar appeared in the doorway, holding a mug of coffee. “You okay? You look like
you’ve seen a ghost.”
I wanted to tell her. I wanted to explain everything, but how could I? Instead, I
smiled weakly. “Just tired. Long night.”

She nodded, but her eyes lingered on me, a flicker of concern shadowing her face. I
hated myself for lying, but what else could I do? If I told her the truth, would
she even believe me? Would anyone?

I spent the next few weeks pretending to be the father and husband I didn’t
remember becoming. My son adored me, oblivious to my inner turmoil. Mar was patient
and loving, her laughter lighting up the house. I tried to savor the moments, but
the fear of losing more time loomed over me like a storm cloud.

And then it happened again.

I was sitting on the couch, watching TV with my son when the shift hit me like a
tidal wave. One moment, I was holding a bowl of popcorn; the next, I was in a
hospital room. My chest felt heavy, and my hands were wrinkled, the veins prominent
under thin, pale skin.

Mar lay in a bed beside me, her face gaunt and pale. Machines beeped softly, their
rhythms steady but somber. I reached for her hand, my breath hitching as I realized
what was happening.

“Don’t cry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’ve had a wonderful life.
We’ve had a wonderful life.”

I wanted to scream, to rage against the cruelty of it all, but instead, I just held
her hand tighter. “I’m not ready,” I choked out.

Her lips curled into the faintest smile. “You will be.”

The machines emitted a long, piercing tone. Nurses rushed in, their movements a
blur. I felt my heart shatter as the world dissolved around me again.

I was back in the woods where it all began, the oppressive silence pressing in on
me. The entity was there, lurking in the periphery of my vision, its absence
rippling across the trees. I wanted to run, but something inside me snapped.

“No more,” I whispered, my voice trembling with defiance. “You’ve taken enough from
me.”

It didn’t respond. It didn’t need to. Its mere presence was enough to drive terror
into my heart. But this time, I didn’t let it consume me. I stood my ground,
refusing to give in to the despair it fed upon.

The air grew colder, the world dimming as it loomed closer. I felt its claws—cold,
invisible—digging into the edges of my mind. But as it tried to drag me into the
void, I focused on the one constant in my fragmented existence: the love I had
shared with Mar, the family we had built, the laughter of my son.

A warmth spread through me, a light that pushed back against the entity’s darkness.
It recoiled, its form flickering like a dying flame. With a final, ear-piercing
screech, it vanished, leaving me alone in the woods.

I stumbled home, unsure if I had truly won or if this was just another illusion.
When I arrived, Mar’s voice greeted me, bright and full of life. “Hey! Dinner’s
almost ready.”

I paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. The house was just as I remembered it
before the shifts began. Mar stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup, her
smile radiant. Our son sat at the table, drawing a picture of what looked like a
rocket.

Tears welled in my eyes as I stepped inside. For the first time in years, I felt
whole.

But deep down, I couldn’t shake the lingering fear that the entity wasn’t truly
gone. It was patient, I realized, and it thrived on fear. If it ever returned, I
would be ready. I would fight. For Mar. For my son. For the life it had tried to
steal from me.

As I sat at the table, watching my family laugh and talk, I made a silent vow: no
matter what came next, I would hold on to these moments for as long as I could.

The days following the apparent defeat of the entity were surreal. For the first
time in what felt like an eternity, life seemed normal. Mar and I laughed over
breakfast, our son brought home drawings from school, and the world held no bizarre
shifts or changes. I wanted to believe it was over, that the entity had truly been
banished, but the unease lingered like a shadow at the edge of my thoughts.

At night, I would wake to the sound of whispers. Faint, almost indistinguishable,

they seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. I’d sit up in bed, my
breath fogging in the suddenly cold air, and strain to listen. The words were
always garbled, alien, as if spoken by something that didn’t understand human
language. Mar slept peacefully beside me, unaware of the growing tension that
gnawed at my sanity.

I began to notice small inconsistencies again—tiny, almost imperceptible cracks in

reality. A book on the shelf was suddenly missing, replaced by one I didn’t
recognize. A neighbor I’d known for years introduced himself as though we’d just
met. The coffee shop down the street changed its name overnight. These weren’t just
figments of my imagination. I knew the entity was still out there, waiting for the
right moment to strike again.

One night, I found myself sitting in the living room, unable to sleep. The snow
outside the window fell in soft, hypnotic patterns, calming my nerves. But as I
watched, the snowflakes began to move unnaturally, twisting and spiraling upward
against gravity. I blinked, and the scene outside shifted. The trees bent at
impossible angles, their branches clawing at the sky. Shadows stretched and danced
across the snow, taking on grotesque shapes.

It was then I heard it—the low, guttural growl that seemed to emanate from the
walls themselves.

I turned slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. The room was the same, yet
different. The corners stretched too far, the shadows too dark. The growl grew
louder, a vibration that seemed to shake the very foundation of the house. And then
I saw it—a faint outline in the corner of the room, a void where reality seemed to
unravel.

It was back.

The entity had returned, more insidious than before. Its form was less defined now,
an amorphous mass of absence, a gaping wound in the fabric of existence. It didn’t
move toward me—it didn’t need to. Its presence alone sent waves of despair crashing
over me.

But this time, I was ready.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small device my grandson had given me
during one of my fragmented leaps. He had called it a “pulse emitter,” a crude
contraption of wires and metal designed to disrupt the entity’s connection to our
plane. I didn’t fully understand how it worked, but I trusted him.

As the growl reached a deafening crescendo, I pressed the button.

A piercing, high-pitched tone filled the air, so loud it felt like my skull would
split. The entity recoiled, its outline flickering and distorting. The shadows in
the room writhed as though alive, clawing at the walls in a desperate attempt to
escape. The device sparked and sputtered, but I held on, willing it to work.

The entity let out a final, agonized shriek before it collapsed into itself,
vanishing in an implosion of sound and light. The room returned to normal, the
oppressive weight lifted. I slumped against the wall, my body trembling from the
effort.

The next morning, I told Mar everything. For the first time, I didn’t hold back. I
told her about the entity, the fractured timelines, the life I’d been forced to
piece together. To my surprise, she didn’t look at me with disbelief or fear.
Instead, she reached for my hand and held it tightly.

“We’ll face it together,” she said, her voice steady. “Whatever comes next, we’ll
get through it.”

And for a while, we did. The years that followed were filled with love and
laughter, but the entity was never far from my mind. I knew it wasn’t gone for
good. It was a hunter, patient and relentless, and I was its prey.

But I also knew this: I was no longer the scared, helpless man it had first
attacked. I had faced the void and survived. And as long as I had Mar and my family
by my side, I would fight. For every moment, every memory, every precious fragment
of the life it had tried to take from me.

Because in the end, even the darkest shadows cannot withstand the light.