The city night was throbbing with the light, the billboard tapped endlessly, and the sound of the engine mixed with the horn created a noise symphony that seemed to never stop. But in the midst of the boisterous, I stood frozen. My hands trembled as I touched the face that I saw in the reflection of the shop - younger skin, eyes that were not tired, a body that had not been destroyed by war.
"What's this…?" I whispered softly, almost swallowed by noise.
I remember clearly how I died. The screams of children, my blood that flowed down the asphalt cracked, the sound of the building that collapsed was swallowed by the fire. I felt the last second, when my consciousness sank under the screams and flames. Death is real. How could I come back, stand again in the heart of the city that is still intact, three years before the foreign gates split the sky?
My head throbbed. Future memories that were destroyed in collision with the current view: a crowd of people busy holding cellphones, digital advertisements that show news news, children laugh while running pursuing ice cream. Two lines of time crashed into my mind, making my breath gasping.
Is this a miracle? Or curse?
Am I really given a second chance, or just a pawn in the game of strength that is far greater than humans?
The cold crap to my neck. Behind the sparkling of the city lights, I feel something ... invisible gaze, as if someone was watching me from behind the veil that could not be touched. For a moment, the billboards across the trembling road, the letters changed into a foreign symbol that pierced my mind, making my heart beat irregularly. Only for a moment, then returned to normal - and no one around me realized.
"Is there a god involved?" The question just appeared, without control. In my memory of the destruction of the world, crazy sects once mentioned the names of foreign entities, worshiping something they call "Lord behind the fog," or "eyes staring from the stars." At that time I thought they were merely mentally ill people. But now? After I returned to life?
I swallowed, bowed in the middle of a crowd so as not to attract attention. It feels, the world that I consider as human property is only a thin surface. Behind it, there are invisible hands who are playing the thread of fate, and I may be just one of their pawns.
I clenched his fist, trying to hold back the feeling of fear.
If it's true there is a god or something bigger behind my birth again ... then sooner or later I will find the answer. Whether it brings safety, or even madness.
Under the light of the lights that flicker, in a city that never slept, I stepped with a trembling chest. That night, for the first time, I felt not only other humans who looked at me - but something far bigger, more strange, and more unly portrayed.
---
Thin rain continued to fall, enveloping the city with a thin fog that reflected the street light. People rushed down the stairs of the underground station, leaving the wet sidewalk. I stepped slowly, letting my feet step down the puddle, the sound of splashing mixed with the roar of a passing vehicle.
Every step feels heavy. Not because of my young body - it was what made me even more surprised - but because of the burden of memory of a dark future. I looked at the faces of the past around me: office employees with wet suits, young people with earphones in the ears, mothers who are busy covering their children. They are all still alive in the belief that the world tomorrow will be the same as today.
I held my jacket tightly.
If only they knew.
However, I realized, I could not just run and shout about the end of the world. This modern world has its own way to get rid of people like that: called crazy, locked up in a mental hospital, forgotten. No, I have to wait. Observe. Arrange steps carefully.
The rain is getting heavier. In the distance, the electric train crossed the flyover, the lights penetrated the fog like a glowing iron snake. I turned to the digital billboards board that rose over a shopping center. This time it was not a foreign symbol that I saw, but the face of a politician smiled, promising a bright future with empty slogans. I paused for a long time, until the fake smile felt like staring directly inside me.
For a moment, I heard a faint whisper again - the people who came from nowhere, echoed between the sound of the rain. I turned to quickly to the right and left, but all I saw was the crowd in a hurry to find the shade. No one is aware.
I took a deep breath.
Can I hear only?
Or actually there are other people who also "wake up," just like me?
That thought made my heart beat faster. If there really is someone else ... are they allies, or even enemies?
The rain stopped slowly, leaving the faint aroma of wet soil mixed with oil and asphalt odors. I stepped towards the empty stop, sitting on a cold bench from iron, letting my mind go away. From behind a thin fog, the call to prayer from the mosque in a distance reverberated - became a strange tone felt strange in the midst of the hubbub of modernity.
I stared blankly forward, realizing one thing: the world is still going as usual, but small gaps have begun to appear. And from that gap, something peeking.
"I can't be rash," I muttered.
______
The rain had stopped when I arrived in front of my house. A small house on the edge of the city, surrounded by simple iron fences and some potted plants that are still wet by the rest of the rain. From the outside, it looks the same as before - calm, ordinary, even a little boring. But for me, this house is more scary than ruins in the future.
I held the door handle, my heart was beating faster. I know who should live in it - my little family. The faces that I forgot for a long time in the midst of war flames. Could they still be there? Could I really see them again?
With trembling hands, I pushed the door. The hinges squeeze softly, as if welcoming me with a bitter nostalgia.
Silent.
The room was empty. The old sofa is still in its place, a small television lying on the table, and a damp aroma that is typical of the old home pierced my nose. But there is no sound, no steps, no laughter. This house is empty.
I stepped in slowly, staring at every corner as if hoping to find a shadow. Family photos hang on the wall, faces that smile at me. I lifted it, my fingers along the cold glass that protected the photo. The feeling of tightness filled my chest - a happiness that ever existed, but also a loss that was so real.
"So ... this is not just a dream," I whispered.
I really returned to the past.
I dropped my body on the sofa, letting mental fatigue press me. However, in the midst of that silence, something feels wrong.
The wall clock beating regularly - Tik ... no ... tick ... no ... - but occasionally his voice seemed to be interrupted. As if there was a strange pause, a longer silence than it should. I looked up at the clock. He still moved, but behind his movements I felt someone was watching.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to calm down. But then ... there was a faint sound from the back room. The sound of creaking wood, slowly, like someone moves in there.
I opened my eyes, my body stiffened. This house should be empty. There is no one.
"Is that ... that's you?" My voice broke out, almost only whisper.
There is no answer. Only more concentrated silence.
I stood up, staring at the dark hallway to the rooms. Every step feels heavy, my heart beats faster. I know, sooner or later I have to face all these mysteries. But that night, in my house that should be safe, I actually felt like I was stepping on the boundary between the human world and something far more strange.
The air in the room was so cold, as if the window was wide open even though the glass was still tightly closed. I stood in front of the table, staring at foreign objects that are now the residents of my house: a ** old pocket clock ** and a ** black book **. Both seemed harmless, but their presence was so odd, like a dark stain on a white canvas of everyday life.
I looked at the pocket clock longer. The carving is full of small circles connected to thin lines, like a star map but chaotic, like imitating the night sky that I never saw. The black metal was cold in the hand, too cold, as if this clock had just been lifted from the seabed. Every second beating feels piercing the ear, the rhythm is not parallel to the wall clock in the living room. *ICT ... No ... ICT ... No ...*—The is foreign, as if beating in another dimension.
I closed the clock and put it back on the table. But once my palm was released from its surface, I felt as if something continued to stare from behind the tightly closed metal cover.
Then my eyes turned to the book. The skin cover looks new, even though the shape is ancient, without the title, without decoration. I opened it carefully. The page is rough, rancid, and on the first sheet the writing is waiting for me:
"All will die."
The dense red writing looked fresh, as if it was only inscribed when I opened the page. The letters are not neat, like being scratched in a hurry, but precisely that is what makes it more real.
I closed the book quickly. Even so, these words are still imprinted clearly in my mind. "All will die." Threat? Warning? Or the prediction of something higher, something that goes beyond human limits?
The silence of the room made my mind more noisy. I looked around: Pale walls, fine creaking wooden floors, furniture shadows that form strange silhouettes in the corner of the room. There are no signs of other people. But I know ... These objects are not mine, not my family. They were placed here on purpose.
That question hit me repeatedly: Who put it?
I took a few steps back, my body stiffened. Foreign feelings burst, not fear, but awareness - awareness that I am not alone. These objects are not just antiques; They are messages. Message from an entity that I don't want to ignore.
I stood up there for a long time, in the middle of a cold and quiet room, only accompanied by a pocket clock that was not synchronous with the outside world. Every second as if to say: *your time is not much. *
But I didn't open the clock anymore, and I didn't turn the pages of the book further. Because in my heart, I know - if I do it, maybe I will find more answers ... but also more horror that I am not ready to accept.
That night, I closed the door to the room slowly, leaving pocket clocks and books on the table. But even when I returned to the living room, I could feel something: their presence was still following me, as if the invisible thread had been connected between me, those things, and something hiding behind the veil of the world.
And in my heart, a hunch appeared: I was not chosen by chance.
_
I sat in the living room, a small lights on the ceiling tuning softly, as if it would go out at any time. From the back room, vaguely still heard the pocket clock, even though I had closed the door tightly. His voice seemed to seep through the wall, penetrate the air, haunt my ears without stopping. Every second that passes makes my mind even more chaotic.
I tried to calm down. Staring at a simple living room: gray sofa with deep sitting, low table full of old magazines, dead small television. Everything is so ordinary, so boring ... but precisely because that is the things in the room feels more unnatural. This house should be a place that I remember clearly from the past. There are no pocket hours, no black books, no foreign symbols. All of that is like a crack that suddenly appears in reality.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. * Is this my own doing?* I thought. I died once, then woke up again. The miracle itself is enough to get rid of logic. But the things were ... no. They are not just a consequence of rebirth. There are other hands that interfere.
For a moment, I heard the sound of rain that was still dripping from the gutter outside. The rhythm is irregular, but when I really listen, the drops sound like recurring codes, forming a kind of strange rhythm. I shivered, hurriedly looked away.
I opened my eyes and looked at the family photo on the wall. The faces smiled, stiff in an old wooden frame. I remembered how they disappeared in the future - a war of war, collapsed with the city. The bitter feeling filled my chest. Now I have a second chance to protect them, but precisely since the first night I returned, there was something waiting for me.
I got up from the sofa, walking to the kitchen. The refrigerator is buzzing softly, the wall clock above the door beating normally. Everything looks ordinary. But the anxiety did not disappear. When I opened the tap and washed my face, the flowing water felt cooler than it should be, piercing to the bones. I looked at the small mirror on the wall. My face is wet, young, not broken as I last saw before death. But my eyes ... as if there was another shadow staring from behind there, faint, unclear, but enough to make me choked.
I immediately moved away from the mirror, back to the living room.
Pocket clock. Black Book. The two objects feel like anchors. They are here not without reason. The biggest question is: ** for what? **
Are they a test? A warning sign? Or ... invitation?
I looked at the ceiling, listening to the sound of a faint beat from the back room. The night was getting late, the city outside the window began to be quiet. The road that was crowded was now only lit by street lights and sounds occasionally passing by vehicles.
In that silence, I whispered softly, almost inaudible by my own ears:
"Whoever you are ... what do you want from me?"
No answer. Only the clock beats that continue to beat, backward, backward, backward ... as if counting the time to something inevitable.
I know, this is just the beginning. And that there are eyes that are now staring at me from behind the darkness of this world.