Breathing. Heavy and deep breathing. A man awakes from his slumber, breathing—heavily breathing.
As he wakes, he attempts to calm his breathing. But the gaze—oh, the gaze. He feels the eyes, the eyes of a predator locked onto its wounded prey.
He lies in bed, terrified, too scared to even think or move an inch. He stares at his ceiling, refusing to risk meeting the gaze should he look anywhere else. He lies there, staring. It feels like hours have passed, yet the gaze refuses to stop piercing.
He continues to lie there, counting his breaths and the beats of his heart. It feels as if days have passed, and then suddenly… it stops. The gaze vanishes. He lets out a shuddering breath of relief, as if he had been holding his lungs shut for an eternity.
"Why won't this damn beast just leave?" he thinks to himself as he continues to lie in bed. Sniffle. He realizes he has been tearing up the entire time from sheer shock.
The man readies himself for the day and moves toward the door of his ragged cabin on the outskirts of the village. His hand grips the shoddy wooden handle—then he hesitates.
Something is off.
His eyes drift to the dining table.
A red book.
He doesn't own a red book.
"I don't remember you being there," he mutters. His voice sounds small in the silence.
He takes a step toward it… then another… then another… then another.
Then he stops.
His body won't move. His breath catches.
Because the feeling is back—uncomfortably familiar, suffocatingly close.
The same gaze. The same presence. Always watching.
But this time, it's not a lingering fear. It's not in his head.
It's real.
And it's close. Too close.