Salif woke up with his eyes heavy and swollen, the weight of sleeplessness pressing down on his lids like stones. Every blink felt laborious, every breath shallow. The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, pale and indifferent, and he barely noticed it. His body ached, muscles stiff from lying too long, but it was the restlessness inside him that gnawed at his mind. The memory of the entity from last night hovered in the corners of his thoughts, unspoken, unavoidable.
He sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes. The dark circles beneath them announced to the world that sleep had been elusive, that nightmares had invaded the night. He felt hollow, as if some part of him had been left behind in the shadows that had haunted his room.
In the living area, his family gathered. Their faces were familiar, warm in a sense, yet distant. Salif avoided eye contact and shoved his hands into his lap. He wanted nothing more than to leave.
— "I want to leave," he said, his voice low, almost too weak to carry. No greeting, no small talk—just the blunt truth.
His family exchanged brief glances. One of them mentioned they would speak with the doctor, but Salif barely heard it. It was irrelevant. He only wanted to be gone from here, from everything.
Abdul came and sat beside him. Salif flinched slightly at the presence, the weight of familiarity pressing down in a new way.
— "You didn't sleep, did you?" Abdul asked quietly. His tone carried no accusation, only observation.
Salif forced himself to look up and met his brother's gaze. In his eyes, a mixture of despair and unspoken pity reflected back. He swallowed hard and managed a small, strained smile.
— "Yes," he lied, "I slept."
Abdul leaned back slightly, studying him.
— "I know what's been troubling you," he said. "It's… the entities. They scare you so much that you can't sleep. Poor thing. Get up. Go through your morning."
Salif blinked, his chest tightening. He wanted to scoff, to dismiss it as nonsense. He tilted his head away, hiding the flicker of fear that made him tremble inwardly.
— "Unfortunately," he murmured, "yes…"
Abdul's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. The calm authority in his demeanor suggested he understood more than he let on. Yet Salif clung stubbornly to the idea that his brother's words were a coincidence.
He thought of their past. Before the events that had shattered their normal life, Salif and Abdul had rarely interacted. Their home had been cold in ways that were hard to explain—words left unsaid, laughter rarely shared. Occasional attempts at play had been awkward and quickly abandoned. And yet now, Abdul's presence felt intentional, protective, and unnervingly perceptive.
Salif rubbed his temples, trying to push the thoughts aside. The room was quiet, save for the faint murmur of distant voices and the soft creak of the floor beneath them. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting lines across the furniture. Even though the entity was nowhere in sight, Salif's senses screamed that it
—or something like i
—was near, waiting.
— "Are you sure you slept?" Abdul asked again, leaning slightly forward.
— "Yes… I did," Salif repeated, forcing another hollow smile.
Abdul pressed his lips together. He did not push further. He simply watched, noting the quickened pulse beneath Salif's chest, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his gaze darted to corners of the room that held no one.
Salif felt a rush of conflicting emotions
—relief that someone seemed to understand, frustration at being powerless, and gnawing doubt about his own perception.
Was he losing his mind? Or was the world revealing things he had never been ready to see?
Hours passed. Meals were eaten mechanically. Conversations were brief and shallow. Abdul remained close, a silent anchor. Every once in a while, he offered a word of advice, gentle yet perceptive, never touching directly on the entity or the night's events, yet somehow confirming that Salif had not imagined the terror.
Night fell. Salif lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, heart racing, muscles tense. Somewhere in the room, he sensed Abdul's calm presence, a constant reassurance that was both comforting and unsettling. There was no entity in sight, but the memory of its presence lingered like a shadow across the room.
He realized something important: he was not alone in his fear—but he was still alone in his uncertainty.
Abdul's eyes watched him with quiet scrutiny, reading not his words, but his reactions. Waiting. Always waiting.
The night stretched on, silent and heavy, as Salif braced himself for whatever would come next.