The air wasn’t just cold—it felt stretched.

Like someone had pulled the atmosphere thin and forgot to let it snap back.

Patch stopped walking.

The little cat’s tail puffed slightly, ears tilting toward the two grassy mounds ahead—the so-called yin-yang eyes. I used to think they were just a weird landscaping choice. But after the shadow delay incident in my bathroom, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

A faint shimmer passed between the mounds.

Not light.

Not heat.

Something else.

My vision lagged for a fraction of a second—long enough for a symbol to flash across the air, like a glitch frame from a corrupted video.

I blinked hard.

The symbol vanished.

Patch hissed softly.

“...You saw that too?”

The cat didn’t answer, of course. But it didn’t move either. Its eyes locked on the space between the mounds, muscles tense.

A low pressure pressed against my skull.

Not painful.

Not physical.

Just wrong.

Like the world was trying to exhale a thought it shouldn’t have.

I took one more step.

The ground beneath me rippled.

Barely.

But enough.

Something was inside the park.

Something that had been quiet until now.

And something that had finally noticed me.