For days, I told myself it had been a dream. A hallucination brought on by shock, blood loss, or the cracked edge of death itself. The doctors said I was lucky. I’d survived a crash that should’ve killed me.
But luck didn’t explain the cold hand that had pulled me from the darkness.
Three nights after I left the hospital, I started to notice it — the feeling of being watched. It began as a chill at the back of my neck, a whisper in the corner of my mind. The shadows stretched longer than they should have, and sometimes, when I turned too quickly, I saw a figure at the edge of my vision. A tall silhouette draped in black.
Always gone when I looked twice.
At first, I blamed the trauma. Then came the mirror.
I’d been brushing my hair in front of the bathroom sink when I saw him behind me — not clearly, just a faint reflection in the fogged glass. Silver eyes, steady, unblinking. My heart stuttered. I spun around. Nothing.
The lights flickered once, and then the air grew cold enough to frost the mirror.
“Stop it,” I whispered to myself. “He’s not real.”
But the voice that answered wasn’t mine.
“Not real?” It was soft, almost amused. “You’ve been whispering my name in your sleep.”
I froze. The bathroom door was open — yet the sound came from everywhere and nowhere.
“Where are you?”
A pause. Then: “Closer than you think.”
The light bulb burst. I screamed, stumbling back, glass shattering around my feet. The darkness that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed. It breathed.
When I woke, it was morning. The bulb was intact. The mirror clean. But on the sink, written in condensation, was a single word.
Soon.
After that, strange things kept happening. A car nearly hit me on my way to work, but the world seemed to slow down just long enough for me to step back. A falling beam at the construction site missed me by inches. Once, I swore I saw a black feather drifting down from nowhere.
He was protecting me. Watching me.
I started dreaming of him — the Reaper with the silver eyes. In the dreams, he stood at the foot of my bed, saying nothing, just watching as if memorizing every breath I took. Sometimes, his voice brushed against my thoughts like a blade’s edge.
You shouldn’t have lived.
You were meant to be mine.
Each morning, I woke with my heart in my throat and the taste of cold on my lips.
One night, after another dream, I found a single black rose on my windowsill. The petals were coated with frost, glimmering under the moonlight.
That was when I realized something terrifying.
Death wasn’t just following me.
He was waiting.
And somehow — God help me — a part of me didn’t want him to stop.
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