The city feels thinner now, like a film stretched too tight. Every sound echoes. Every face blurs.

I wake to silence that doesn’t feel empty, but waiting.

There’s a letter under my door. No envelope. Just folded paper.

My name is written in pencil, the handwriting slightly slanted, almost familiar.

"You left the page too soon. The story wasn’t done with you."

I sit with it in my hands for a long time. As if warmth might bloom from the graphite. As if understanding could be coaxed from stillness.

—

Outside, the streets are slick with last night’s rain. I walk without knowing where I’m going, eyes scanning windows, corners, silhouettes.

In the park, the same bench. The same silence. Except today, there's someone there.

A man, back turned, coat frayed at the collar. Fingers stained with ink. A pen in one hand.

I approach slowly. He doesn’t move.

I sit at the far end. Say nothing.

Minutes pass like pages turned by wind.

Finally, he speaks: "Did it help, the watching?"

His voice is quiet. Threadbare.

"No," I answer.

He nods. "It never does."

I want to ask who he is. Why me. What he wants.

But instead I say: "Why the letters?"

He doesn't look at me. "Because talking makes things vanish. Writing... leaves ghosts."