The pain fades, but it leaves a shadow behind—an emptiness I can't explain. My head feels... off. I sink onto the couch, the leather-bound book still clutched in my hands. My legs feel like jelly, my arms too heavy to move. My eyes drift across the room, taking in the chaos—the scattered herbs, the shattered jars, the scratches gouged into the walls. It's a nightmare scene, surreal and impossible. That's all this is. A nightmare. At any moment, I'll wake up. I'll open my eyes, and Lily will be beside me, rolling at how dramatic I was about the fever. She'll call me ridiculous, and we'll laugh. But the air is too cold for a dream. I stare at the mess in front of me, unblinking, the images swimming together like a dark, incoherent painting. My pulse hums in my ears, but it feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. What day is it? How long has it been since... since the shed? Since Lily...? My breathing grows shallow. My chest feels like it's collapsing under the weight of a thousand thoughts I can't sort out. This isn't real. I clutch the book tighter, my fingers digging into the worn leather. My nails press into it so hard I expect it to tear, but I don't let go. It's the only solid thing in this room that feels real. A whisper cuts through the silence again, faint but unmistakable: Adam... why didn't you listen? My head jerks up, my heart lurches in my chest. "Stop it," I whisper hoarsely to no one. My voice feels small, swallowed by the cold air around me. The whispers don't stop. They swirl around the room, overlapping, crawling into the corners of my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. My knuckles turn white as I clutch the book tighter, its edges biting into my skin. This is just a bad dream. A fever dream. I'll wake up any second. The whispers grow louder, overlapping, cascading over each other like a choir from hell. I dig my fingers into the couch, forcing myself to ignore them, to push the sound away. It's not real. It's not real. It's not— Adam... The voice is close now, too close. It doesn't just touch my ears—it sinks into my bones, wrapping around my chest like a vice. I snap my eyes open, gasping for breath. The cabin is still. Too still. The silence presses down on me like a weight, crushing, suffocating. My gaze drifts to the book in my hands. Its surface feels warmer now, as if it's alive, pulsing faintly under my fingers. I laugh. A dry, humorless laugh that cracks in the middle. "I'm losing my fucking mind," I mutter to the empty room. The laughter stops abruptly, the weight of my words hitting me harder than I expected. Am I losing it? Is any of this real? My hands tremble as I pull the book closer to my chest, holding it like a lifeline. My heart races, my breaths shallow and uneven. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. But the scratches are real. The blood is real. The whispers... I slam my eyes shut again; the book pressed so tightly against my chest that it feels like it might sink into me. "I'll wake up," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I'll wake up any second." The cabin stays silent. The cold stays real. And the whispers? They never stop. I don't know how long I sit here. Minutes? Hours? It doesn't matter. Time feels hollow, stretched thin around me like the air in the cabin. The whispers don't stop. They coil and twist through the silence, threading into my ears, into my mind. I stare at the wall, unblinking, my fingers drumming against the leather book in my lap. "Keep talking," I mutter under my breath, my voice distant, detached. I laugh. It's a sharp, humorless sound that barely feels like my own. The whispers rise and fall, a chorus I can't understand but can't tune out. I laugh again, louder this time, leaning forward, clutching the book so tightly it creaks under the strain. "You're wasting your breath, or... or whatever the fuck this is." The cabin feels colder, the air heavier, but I refuse to look around. I refuse to acknowledge the shadows stretching at the edges of my vision or the way the walls seem to hum faintly. "This is just a dream," I say, my voice cracking as I rock slightly in place. "That's all this is. Any moment now... any moment, I'll wake up." I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling, the laughter spilling out of me in broken bursts. "This... all of this... gone. Just like that." I snap my fingers, though my hands are trembling so hard the sound barely comes. The whispers swell around me, louder now, overlapping in a chaotic murmur. I clench my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut as if that will make them stop. They don't. I grip the book tighter, the leather warm and damp beneath my palms. The room sways, the cabin itself seeming to tilt on its unseen axis. "Shut up," I hiss, my voice shaking. "Just... shut up." The whispers twist through the air, indistinct and unrelenting, pressing against my thoughts like a tide I can't hold back. My hands shoot up to my ears, fingers digging into my temples. "I said shut up!" I scream, my voice echoing through the cabin. The room falls silent, and for a moment, I let out a shaky breath, my heart pounding in the stillness. But then the whispers start again, softer this time, sinking under my skin. I laugh again, bitter and wild, shaking my head as I lean back into the couch. "This isn't real," I mutter, more to myself than anything else. "This isn't fucking real." I keep my eyes on the mess around me. The whispers surround me, curling at the edges of my mind, and I do everything I can to not listen. Because the moment I listen... I know I'll break. But the silence between the whispers pulls me somewhere else. I can see her smile, hear her laugh. We were so much younger then, standing in the middle of that tiny apartment in town. The floors were scuffed, the kitchen barely fit two people, and the paint on the walls was faded. But it was perfect. "I like this one," Lily said, her voice light, excited. She walked to the window, brushing her fingers along the frame. "It's close to everything. We could walk to the farmer's market on Sundays. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I remember watching her, the way her eyes sparkled as she imagined our life there. She spun around, her arms spread wide as if she could feel the space filling with us—our laughter, our late-night conversations, the quiet moments we'd steal from the world. "Yeah," I said, leaning against the counter, pretending to be the practical one. "It's not bad." She laughed, crossing the room to stand in front of me. "You love it," she teased, poking my chest. "Admit it." "Fine," I said, grinning. "I love it. It's… cozy." "Cozy is good," she said softly, her smile softening into something more tender. "We don't need anything big. Just something that's ours." She leaned into me then, her arms wrapping around my waist as she rested her head on my chest. "We don't need much, Adam. Just each other." I remember the way she smelled, like lavender and sunlight. It was later that night, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, eating takeout out of paper cartons, that the conversation shifted. "You know," she started, her voice casual, "I don't think I want kids." I looked at her, surprised but not shocked. "No?" She shook her head, her chopsticks pausing mid-air. "I just… I think I'd hate giving up the time we have together. You know? I don't want to lose what makes us us." I didn't answer right away. I let the words settle, looking at her as she stared into her noodles like they held some kind of answer. "I don't want kids either," I finally said. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide. "Really?" "Yeah," I said with a shrug. "I love what we have. I don't want to share it with anyone else. It's enough, Lily. You're enough." Her smile was the only answer I needed. The memory fades, slipping through my fingers like sand, and the whispers creep back in, louder now, angrier. ✽✽✽ The hours bleed into each other, and I don't move. The whispers swirl around me, a constant murmur I've forced myself to ignore. My mind feels detached, floating somewhere above the suffocating weight of the cabin. The sun begins to rise, pale light creeping through the cracks in the blinds. It casts the room in dull gray, revealing the mess around me in sharper detail—all of it feels distant, like I'm looking at someone else's life. I haven't slept. I haven't even tried. I sit there, motionless, waiting for the moment I'll wake up. But the light doesn't chase away the shadows, and the whispers haven't stopped. They've softened, blending into the background, but they're still there, pressing against my thoughts like an itch I can't scratch. My legs ache as I finally push myself to stand. My body feels heavy, sluggish, like it's been filled with lead. The leather book is still clutched in my hand, but I set it down on the counter as I shuffle into the kitchen. The herbs are scattered across the floor, mixed with shards of broken glass. I crouch down, picking through the mess, not caring what I grab. Rosemary? Lavender? Something else? It doesn't matter. None of it matters. I dump the handful of herbs into the kettle, bits of dirt and leaves clinging to my fingers. The water bubbles as I turn the burner on, the sound hissing against the silence. I move like a machine; every action is automatic. My hands find a mug, a strainer. The whispers continue their constant drone, but I don't look up. I don't acknowledge them. The kettle whistles, and I pour the water, the faint smell of steeping herbs rising into the air. I don't care what it tastes like. I just need something warm to fill the hollow space in my chest. I lean against the counter, staring blankly at the steam curling from the cup. My hands tremble as I reach for the mug, but before I can take a sip, I hear it. A faint rustling. I glance at the leather-bound book, now lying closed on the counter where I left it. The sound comes again, soft but unmistakable—the sound of paper shifting. I watch, my heart pounding, as the book begins to open on its own. The pages flip slowly at first, like an invisible hand is thumbing through them, searching for something. Then the movement quickens, the sound sharp and deliberate, until the book slams open to a specific page. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. The book lies open, its pages trembling slightly as if alive. Symbols and words fill the parchment, their meanings indecipherable, but my eyes are drawn to one image in particular—a crude drawing of a rabbit, its eyes black pits, with jagged lines radiating from its body like fractures. I stare, my chest tightening. The rabbit. The image is surrounded by handwritten notes, scrawled in a chaotic, frantic hand. Some of the text is crossed out, lines slashing through the ink, while other sections are underlined repeatedly, the marks digging into the paper. My fingers hover above the page, trembling. I want to shut the book, to shove it off the counter and pretend I didn't see it, but I can't move. The whispers grow louder. They seem to seep out of the book itself now, wrapping around me, pulling at the edges of my mind. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I back away from the counter, the mug of tea forgotten as I press myself against the wall, my chest heaving. The book flips another page on its own. The pages turn again, faster this time, the rustling sound filling the room. The symbols grow more twisted, the writing more erratic. The whispers crescendo, a chaotic storm of voices that press into my ears, my chest, my skull. And then, as suddenly as it started, it stops. The book lies open again, its final page staring up at me. A single word is scrawled across the bottom in jagged letters, etched so deeply into the paper that it looks as if the page might tear. I don't want to look at it. But my eyes betray me. The word burns into my mind, searing itself into the space the whispers left behind. Leave The sound of the kettle cooling fills the silence. The cabin feels darker again, the pale light of dawn doing nothing to chase away the shadows. I take a shaky breath, my legs threatening to give out beneath me. The book lies open, waiting. I stare at the word—Leave. It pulses faintly on the page, like it's alive, like it's breathing. My hands tremble as I reach for the edges of the book, my fingertips brushing the rough paper. I don't know why I'm touching it. I don't want to. But I can't stop myself. The pages flutter on their own, the sound sharp and rhythmic, like the flapping of wings in a dark room. One by one, they settle. My chest tightens as I see it. Leave. The word stares back at me again, but now it's smeared across the margins, repeated over and over. Sometimes small, cramped letters like they were scratched in desperation. Sometimes large and bold, as though someone screamed the word onto the page. I flip to the next page—more of the same. Leave. Leave. Leave. The letters twist and shift, the ink dripping down the paper like blood. I watch helplessly as the words pool at the bottom of the page, spreading outward, crawling across my hands and up my wrists. I jerk back with a sharp inhale, the book dropping to the table with a thud. The words are gone. The ink stains vanish. But as soon as I blink, the book flips open again. You need to leave. The sentence slashes across the center of the page, the letters uneven and jagged, like they were carved with shaking hands. My vision blurs, sweat trickling down my temples. I try to turn away, but my eyes won't leave the page. The book flips again. This time, it's a picture—no, a drawing. Crude, unfinished. It's the cabin. Our cabin. The familiar silhouette sits surrounded by dark, jagged lines. I squint closer, my heart pounding. The lines aren't trees or shadows. They're hands. Fingers. Reaching. The next page turns. The same picture. The cabin, but now the door is open. A dark figure stands in the threshold, faceless and tall, its shape blurring as though the paper can't contain it. My breaths come faster, my chest heaving. "Stop," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Stop showing me this." The book flips again, pages whipping violently. The picture changes. It's me. I'm in the cabin, standing in the living room. My face is hollow, my eyes black pits, my hands smeared with something dark. Behind me, the same shadow figure looms, its fingers grazing the back of my head. The words crawl across the bottom of the page like spiders. You don't belong here. Leave before it finds you. My vision swims. I shove the book away, its weight sliding across the table and crashing to the floor. The sound echoes like a gunshot, and I stagger back, my knees weak. The whispers start again, faint at first, curling at the edges of the room. Leave, Adam. Leave now. Leave before it's too late. I press my palms to my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. "No," I whisper. "No, no, no." I force my eyes open, my gaze darting to the book on the floor. It's closed now. Quiet. But as I watch, a single word appears, burned into the cover like a scar: Leave. My legs give out, and I collapse into the nearest chair, my breathing ragged. I stare at the book as though it might move again, as though it's watching me, waiting for me to do something. The cabin feels darker now, the shadows in the corners stretching, moving, waiting. "Why?" I whisper to no one. My voice sounds small, lost. "Why are you telling me to leave?" The whispers don't answer. But the silence that follows feels heavier, more suffocating than the noise. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. The images flash behind my eyelids—hands reaching, the dark figure at the door, my own face hollow and ruined. You don't belong here. I open my eyes again, staring at the book, at the scarred word etched into its cover. Leave. I don't know if I can.