The cab pulled to a stop in front of Ethan’s apartment, the faint hum of the engine pulling him from his thoughts. He paid the driver, stepping out into the cool night air. A light drizzle had begun, soft and persistent, glistening on the pavement like liquid starlight.  

As he approached his door, Ethan hesitated. Something tugged at him—not a sound, not a sight, but a feeling. He glanced back at the street, half-expecting to see someone standing there. It was empty, the glow of streetlamps revealing only the quiet sway of leaves in the rain.  

Ethan shook his head and turned the key, stepping into the familiar comfort of his apartment. But as he closed the door, his gaze fell on his writing desk, where his notebook lay open, just as he’d left it earlier.  

The face he had sketched for his new novel, Hourglass—the sharp, haunting features—stared back at him. The lines looked darker now, almost as if they’d been pressed into the page by someone else. He ran his fingers over the paper, but it was dry, untouched.  

Ethan’s mind raced, searching for explanations, but none came. Instead, an unease settled over him, like a shadow cast by a light he couldn’t find.  

On the table beside the notebook lay a single drop of water. It shimmered faintly in the lamplight, then slid off the edge of the desk.  

The rain hadn’t touched him inside the cab. He hadn’t spilled anything. He looked at the locked window, untouched, and then back at the water.  

“Impossible,” Ethan whispered. But the whisper didn’t feel like his own.  

And as he stared at the drop’s glistening trail, a faint laugh—soft, low, and eerily familiar—echoed in the back of his mind.  

Ethan rubbed his temples, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The laugh lingered, an unshakable phantom, as if it were coming from the walls themselves. Shaking it off, he walked into the kitchen, eager to drown his unease in routine. 

The kettle clicked to life as he set it to boil. The quiet hum of his apartment crept back in, soothing but not entirely comforting. He leaned against the counter, staring at his phone on the table. A message notification from earlier flashed on the screen. 

He exhaled slowly, picking up the phone and hesitating before dialling. The line rang twice before she answered.   

“Ethan?” Naomi’s voice was soft but steady, a grounding contrast to the turmoil swirling inside him.   

 “Yeah, I just got in,” he said, his voice catching slightly. “It’s been...a weird night.”   

“Want to talk about it?” she asked, concern lacing her tone.   

“Not over the phone,” he said finally. “You free to come by?”   

“Of course,” Naomi said without hesitation. “I’ll be there in twenty.”   

The call ended, and Ethan felt a faint wave of relief, though it did little to dispel the oppressive weight pressing down on him.   

By the time Naomi arrived, the rain had picked up, a steady rhythm against the window. She stepped inside, brushing droplets off her jacket before setting it on the back of a chair.   

“You okay?” she asked, taking in his expression. 

Ethan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestured toward the desk. Naomi’s gaze followed, landing on the open notebook. She approached it cautiously, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating the unsettling sketch.   

Her brow furrowed as she studied it. “Is this...?”   

“Shamble,” Ethan said, his voice low. 

“I’m not sure,” he said finally, his voice uncertain. “Just... a strange coincidence, I guess.” 

Naomi paused. “Is it really bugging you?” 

Ethan rubbed his face. “Yeah... I guess. It is just, the more I think about it, the more I’m not sure if it’s just a face I drew, or if I’ve seen him before. But that can’t be right, right? It is just a coincidence.” 

Naomi stayed silent for a moment, absorbing his words. “I don’t know, Ethan. I mean... it’s definitely strange. But you didn’t know him when you drew it, right?” 

“No, no, I didn’t,” Ethan said, pacing now. “It was months ago—just random features for practice. I didn’t even think it looked like anyone. But now... looking at it again, I don’t know. It feels like I should know him.” 

Naomi leaned forward, studying the sketch with a furrowed brow. “But it does look like him. It’s almost like it could be his face, but it’s not exactly him, right?” 

Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe. But when I saw him tonight, Naomi—it wasn’t just his face. It was the way he looked at me. Like he knew I’d drawn him, like... like something more is going on.” 

Naomi shivered slightly, her arms crossing as she looked at the notebook. “It could just be coincidence, though. Maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. It’s a weird night. I mean, I’ve heard of things like this happening, but... I don’t know.” 

Ethan stopped pacing, his voice lowering. “Maybe. But he said something... something that really threw me off.” 

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “What did he say?” 

Ethan hesitated, his gaze flickering to the sketch again. “He said, ‘Solitude begets madness. Invite your creations—let them dance with their own demons. Perhaps, in doing so, you may uncover the truth.’” 

Naomi’s eyes widened, her expression turning more serious. “That’s... intense. Are you sure you didn’t mishear him?” 

Ethan shook his head slowly. “No. I heard him clearly. And it wasn’t just what he said, it was how he said it. Like he... knew something. Something I didn’t.” 

Naomi bit her lip, glancing at the sketch once more. “I don’t know, Ethan. Maybe it’s just your mind working overtime. But that’s... it’s hard to ignore. 

Ethan rubbed his face again, a growing sense of unease settling over him. “I don’t know what to think. But when he spoke... it felt like it wasn’t just a coincidence. Like maybe I’ve been connected to this—him—long before tonight.” 

Naomi remained silent for a long moment, considering his words. Finally, she spoke softly. “Whatever’s going on, Ethan, we’ll figure it out. But we need to stay grounded. It might just be more coincidence than you realize.” 

Ethan gave a small, uncertain nod, but his mind was racing, and the weight of the situation felt heavier with every passing second. 

Ethan stood at the desk, staring at the sketch one last time. The face seemed to hold more than just ink and paper now—it felt alive, like it was watching him. 

He shook his head. “I’m losing it,” he muttered, closing the notebook with a decisive thud and sliding it into a drawer. 

Naomi gave him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s probably for the best. We can talk more tomorrow, okay?” 

He nodded, forcing a faint smile. “Yeah, thanks.” 

She grabbed her coat and opened the door, pausing to look back. “And Ethan... try to sleep. Don’t let it get to you.” 

“I won’t,” he lied. 

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the quiet hum of the apartment. Ethan sighed, the weight of the day settling over him. “Just tired,” he told himself, flipping off the light. Shadows pooled around the room, but the rhythmic patter of the rain outside was almost soothing. 

As he turned toward his bedroom, a faint rustle made him pause. 

Ethan glanced back, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The drawer was slightly ajar. Had he left it that way? He couldn’t remember, and honestly, he didn’t care. 

“Seriously need sleep,” he muttered, his tone flat, brushing off the moment as he continued toward his room. 

But as he closed his bedroom door, the faintest sound lingered—soft, low, like a chuckle slipping through the walls. He stopped for a second, his heart skipping a beat, but then he shook his head again, dismissing it. 

“Imagination,” he said aloud, as if the word could banish it entirely. 

Ethan climbed into bed, pulling the covers tight. The sound of rain filled the silence, and soon, his thoughts began to blur, dragging him toward uneasy sleep.