The first thing I notice is the sound.
A faint papery scrape against wood, so soft it almost blends with the hum of the fridge in my kitchen. I'm still half-asleep, tangled in my blanket on the couch, and for a moment I think it's just the neighbors upstairs dragging a chair. But then it comes again—a short slide, like someone slipping something under my front door.
I freeze.
My apartment is small—living room, kitchenette, one bedroom—and from where I'm curled up, I can see the door across the room. A single white rectangle lies just inside, its edge still quivering from the motion.
For a second I debate just ignoring it. Mail doesn't usually arrive by stealth before dawn, and I'm not in the mood to deal with flyers or building notices. But curiosity is a disease I've never been able to cure, so I throw off the blanket and pad across the room barefoot, the cold floor biting at my toes.
It's not an envelope. It's a piece of thick cream paper, folded once. No name on it. My fingers hesitate before unfolding it.
Don't take the elevator today. Use the stairs.
That's it. No signature, no explanation. The handwriting is elegant, almost old-fashioned, the kind you only see in antique letters or wedding invitations.
I glance at the clock on the wall—6:32 a.m. I'm supposed to head out for groceries in about an hour. My apartment building is six floors high, and I live on the fourth. The elevator works fine. This is stupid.
I set the note on the counter, get ready, and—because I'm not the type to be bossed around by anonymous pieces of paper—I take the elevator.
The doors slide shut with their usual slow sigh, and the fluorescent light overhead flickers once. Then again.
Halfway between the third and second floor, the elevator shudders violently, lurching downward like it's lost its grip. I grab the railing, heart in my throat, and the light cuts out completely.
It's pitch dark.
Somewhere above me, machinery groans like an animal in pain. Then—silence. I jab at the emergency button with shaking hands. After a long minute, the lights flicker back on weakly. The car hasn't moved.
By the time maintenance pries the doors open, I've been standing there for twenty minutes, clutching my groceries bag like a weapon.
I take the stairs back up.
The note is still on my counter when I return, its calm little warning looking a lot less silly.
I spend the day trying to forget it.
But when night comes and I'm curled in bed with a book, something slips under my door again. This time I hear it clearly—the soft slide, the faint tap against the floor.
My stomach tightens.
I creep to the door, press my ear against it. Nothing. No footsteps in the hall. No voices. Just the low hum of the heating vent.
The note waits for me when I open the door. Same paper, same precise handwriting. I unfold it with fingers that feel colder than they should.
Tonight you will dream about the ocean.
I stand there in the dim light, reading it over and over, until the words blur.
There's no reason this should make me feel uneasy. It's just a statement. It's not dangerous. And yet, the idea that someone knows what I'm going to dream—before I do—sits heavy in my chest.
I slip the note into my nightstand drawer and tell myself I won't think about it again.
That's the plan.
Until morning comes.
And there's another note.