The road stretched into silence.

Mark had been driving for hours, cutting through the empty countryside, when he first noticed something was wrong. No cars. No lights in the distance. Just miles of cracked asphalt and the occasional rusted road sign. He wasn't lost—he knew that much. His phone's GPS had stopped working a while back, but the last time he checked, he was heading toward a small town called Ashvale.

A town that, according to the map, was right here.

Mark slowed the car as he entered the main street. It looked normal at first glance—rows of buildings, a gas station on the corner, a diner with faded neon letters. But something was missing.

The people.

The place wasn't abandoned. It wasn't ruined or overgrown. The traffic lights still worked, flickering red and green. The grocery store's doors were propped open, a shopping cart half-full of food right outside. A barber's chair still held a drape, scissors resting on the counter as if the barber had just stepped away.

But there was no one here.

Mark pulled over and stepped out. The silence pressed against him, thick and unnatural. He walked to the diner first, pushing open the glass door. The little bell above jingled, cheerful and out of place. The smell of coffee still hung in the air. A plate of half-eaten eggs sat on the counter, the yolk dried and crusted. Someone had been here. Recently.

He called out. "Hello?"

No answer.

Mark backed out of the diner, heart pounding. He tried the gas station next. Empty. A house nearby—front door wide open, a television still playing a cartoon.

Something was very wrong.

He pulled out his phone again. No service.

His car's radio had only static now.

Mark turned in a slow circle, scanning the street. That was when he noticed something even stranger. The air felt thick. Not humid, not hot, but heavy. Like stepping into a room filled with too many unspoken words. He glanced at the sky. The sun was still up, but there was something off about the light. It was too dim, too faded, like a painting left in the rain.

Then he saw it.

A figure at the end of the street.

Standing still. Watching.

Mark swallowed hard. "Hey! You there!"

No response.

He took a step forward. The figure didn't move. It was tall and thin, standing right in the middle of the road. At this distance, he couldn't make out a face.

Mark hesitated, then walked toward it.

The figure didn't move.

Fifty feet. Thirty. Twenty.

Then, just as he got close enough to see its face—

It was gone.

Not like it ran. Not like it ducked into an alley. One second it was there, the next it wasn't. Just empty pavement where it had stood.

Mark's breath came fast and uneven.

He turned around.

And the figure was behind him.

Closer now.

Too close.

Mark bolted. He didn't think, didn't look back—just sprinted to his car, fumbled with the keys, and threw himself inside. The engine roared to life. The tires screeched as he sped down the road, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.

He didn't stop. Not for miles.

When he finally dared to look in the rearview mirror—

The town was gone.

Not in the distance. Not shrinking behind him.

Gone.

As if it had never been there at all.