The city welcomed me back with familiar indifference.
Morning traffic roared past in disciplined chaos, horns blaring, engines coughing smoke into the gray sky. People hurried along sidewalks with heads down, eyes fixed on screens or the ground, as if looking up might cost them something precious. The rain had stopped, leaving behind damp streets that reflected buildings in long, distorted streaks.
Normal.
Too normal.
I walked among them, my coat heavier than it should have been, the pearl hidden beneath layers of fabric and denial. Every step felt slightly off, like I was walking half a beat behind the world. Sounds reached me a fraction too late. Faces blurred at the edges when I stared too long.
The seam, EG had called it.
I stopped at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the light to change. The signal glowed red, steady and patient. A woman beside me hummed softly, a tune I didn't recognize. Somewhere behind us, a vendor argued over change. Life flowed forward without hesitation.
And yet—
In the reflection of a shop window, I saw it.
Not clearly. Not fully.
Just a shadow that didn't belong to anyone standing there.
My pulse quickened. I looked away at once, fixing my gaze on the crosswalk lines painted on the road. When the light turned green, I moved with the crowd, pretending nothing had happened.
Pretending was becoming a skill.
I spent the rest of the day testing the limits of reality. Coffee tasted the same. My phone worked. Messages came in from people who had no idea I had stood inside a tower that might not exist. I answered them with practiced ease, typing words that sounded like me, even if I wasn't entirely sure who that was anymore.
By evening, exhaustion set in—not physical, but something deeper, heavier.
I returned to my apartment just as the sky darkened into a bruised purple. The hallway lights flickered once before stabilizing. I paused, listening.
Nothing unusual.
Still, I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, eyes closed, breathing slowly until my heart settled.
The silence felt… attentive.
I turned on the lamp. Warm light filled the small room, pushing shadows into their proper corners. My reflection stared back at me from the darkened TV screen. Pale. Tired. Normal.
Almost convincing.
I reached for the pearl.
The moment my fingers brushed it, the air shifted.
Not dramatically. Not violently.
It was more like the room had leaned in.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the pearl cradled in my palm. Its surface glowed faintly, reacting not to light, but to proximity—to me. Images stirred beneath its surface, blurred and half-formed, like dreams struggling to surface.
"Don't," I whispered, unsure who I was speaking to.
The glow dimmed, but didn't disappear.
A knock sounded at the door.
I froze.
No one ever visited unannounced.
The knock came again—slow, deliberate.
My first instinct was EG.
My second was worse.
I slipped the pearl back under my shirt and approached the door quietly. The peephole showed an empty hallway.
I hesitated, then unlocked the door and opened it just enough to look.
No one stood there.
But on the floor, directly in front of my threshold, lay a small object.
A folded piece of paper.
I stared at it for a long moment before crouching to pick it up. The paper was dry, despite the rain earlier. Unmarked on the outside.
Inside, only one line was written, in neat, unfamiliar handwriting.
You returned too smoothly.
My throat tightened.
I scanned the hallway again. Still empty. Too empty.
I closed the door, locking it with more force than necessary. The words burned in my mind, repeating themselves, echoing with meaning I didn't want to unpack yet.
Too smoothly.
EG had said the city would feel normal. He hadn't said it would be safe.
The lights flickered again.
This time, they didn't stabilize.
The room dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally long across the walls. I felt the pressure before I saw anything—the same weight I had felt in the tower, subtle but unmistakable.
Then, my reflection in the TV screen moved.
Not much.
Just enough.
It tilted its head a fraction of a second after I did.
My breath caught.
"I see you," the reflection said soundlessly, lips forming words without voice.
I stepped back, heart pounding. "You're not real," I said aloud, clinging to the sound of my own voice.
The reflection smiled.
Not wide. Not cruel.
Patient.
The lights snapped back on.
The room returned to normal. The TV screen showed only my own shaken face, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
I stood there for a long time, waiting for something else to happen.
Nothing did.
But I understood then—truly understood—that the city wasn't ignoring me.
It was pretending.
And somewhere between its crowded streets and silent reflections, something had noticed how easily I slipped back into place.
Too easily.
Outside, far above the rooftops, thunder rolled—soft, restrained, and waiting.