He awoke to the silence.

The ceiling above him was cracked-long, hairline fractures spreading across like the veins of a dying thing. The walls were discolored, pale gray with splotches of mold curling at the edges. Dust hung in the air like it had been waiting, undisturbed, for someone to breathe it in.

He blinked slowly.

His body ached-not from wounds, but from stillness. As if he'd been lying in this bed for days. Or years.

He sat up, wincing, and scratched the side of his head. Nails digging into dry skin. Something about the gesture felt habitual, but not entirely his own.

The bedsheets were damp. Cold. Clinging.

He swung his legs off the bed. The wooden floor beneath groaned-a slow, warbling sound like a dying breath. It wasn't just the noise that unsettled him. It was the way the groan seemed to respond.

As though the house had only just realized he was awake.

He rose to his feet, unsteady. The dizziness hit him like a low tide-persistent, whispering nausea at the back of his skull. He leaned against the wall. The wallpaper felt soft, decaying, like wet paper.

He stepped into the hallway.

A narrow corridor stretched ahead, lined with crooked picture frames. Faces in the photos were either blurred or scratched out entirely, as though someone had desperately tried to forget them.

He didn't recognize the faces.
He didn't recognize the house.

He didn't recognize himself.

Something stirred behind him. Not a sound, but a pressure. The kind of weight you feel when someone's staring at the back of your neck.

He turned. Nothing.

And yet... something was definitely there. Just beyond sight. Just beyond understanding.

He placed a hand over his chest. His heartbeat was slow, almost lazy, but each beat felt like a thud against rotted wood.

He moved forward. The pictures watched him. The hallway narrowed.

A mirror waited at the end. Tall. Covered in a film of dust so thick it looked like skin. He reached out, brushed it aside with trembling fingers.

The face that stared back...

It looked human. Mostly.

But his eyes were bloodshot. His skin, pale and sunken, almost gray. His lips were cracked and dried. There were scratches along his cheek and jaw, like he'd clawed at himself.

And behind the reflection-just for a moment-he saw something move.

A flicker. A silhouette.

He whipped around.

Still nothing.

He exhaled slowly. His chest rose and fell in uncertain rhythm. His breathing didn't feel natural. It felt learned, like an imitation.

A name surfaced in the back of his mind.

John.

He whispered it to himself. It echoed off the walls.

John Waleson.

It didn't feel like a memory.

It felt like a sentence.