The clock struck midnight, and the sound echoed through the apartment with an unnatural sharpness, as though time itself wanted to be noticed. Liora lay awake on her bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks that spidered across the plaster. Sleep refused to come. It hadn't for days. Her mind felt restless, unsettled, as though it was waiting for something it couldn't name.
Her room was dim, washed in the pale, silvery glow of moonlight that filtered through the thin curtains. The light cast long, uneven shadows across the walls and floor, stretching them into strange, distorted shapes. The familiar space—her bed, her desk, her wardrobe—felt unfamiliar tonight. Heavier. As though the air itself had thickened, pressing down on her chest with a quiet, suffocating weight.
She shifted beneath the covers, pulling them tighter around herself, but the unease remained. The silence was wrong. Too deep. Too deliberate. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of sleep but the kind that waited, listening.
That was when she heard it.
"Liora… Liora…"
The whisper was soft, almost fragile, like it might break if she breathed too loudly. It drifted through the room, brushing against her ears with chilling intimacy. Her heart skipped violently, slamming against her ribs as adrenaline flooded her system.
She sat up abruptly, eyes wide, scanning the room.
Nothing.
Her gaze swept over the familiar furniture—the old wooden dresser, the chair draped with clothes, the faint reflection of herself in the mirror across the room. Everything was exactly where it should be. Still. Ordinary.
"It's nothing," she whispered to herself, forcing a shaky breath. "Just tired. Just my imagination."
Her rational mind scrambled for explanations. Stress. Lack of sleep. A half-dream bleeding into consciousness. But before she could fully convince herself, the whisper came again.
"Save… me…"
This time, it was clearer. Stronger. And unmistakably real.
Her stomach twisted. The voice wasn't coming from inside her head—it was in the room. Around her. The sound carried a pleading edge, sharp enough to cut through denial.
She shook her head, a weak laugh bubbling up in her throat as a defense. "Okay, that's enough," she muttered, attempting humor. "I really need sleep."
But the laugh died before it could escape. Her throat tightened, suddenly dry. The temperature in the room dropped so quickly it felt violent, like an invisible door had been thrown open to winter. A thin layer of frost crept along the window sill, glistening faintly in the moonlight—impossible on such a warm summer night.
Liora hugged herself as goosebumps erupted across her arms. Her breath fogged faintly in the air.
"I'm alone," she whispered, more a plea than a statement. "I'm alone."
Yet every instinct in her body screamed otherwise.
The whisper returned, closer now. Urgent. It carried weight, authority, as if whatever spoke was no longer asking.
The shadows in the room began to move.
At first, it was subtle—just a flicker at the corner of her vision. Then one shadow stretched longer than it should have, peeling away from the wall. It twisted, bending at impossible angles, swelling and shrinking like a living thing.
Her breath hitched.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, no, no…"
The shadow elongated further, then snapped back into place, vanishing as suddenly as it had moved.
Her heart raced so hard it hurt.
Her first instinct was to call someone—anyone. She reached for her phone with trembling hands, nearly dropping it as she pressed the power button.
Nothing.
The screen stayed black.
Her chest tightened as panic curled in her stomach, slow and poisonous. She tried again. Still nothing. No light. No response. It was as though the device had died in her hands.
Her breathing quickened. "Come on," she pleaded softly, shaking it. "Please."
The whisper returned, no longer gentle.
It pressed against her ears, commanding, unavoidable.
She swung her legs off the bed, intending to run—to the door, to the hallway, anywhere—but her body betrayed her. Her legs felt heavy, rooted to the floor, as though the air itself had turned to concrete around her.
Fear paralyzed her.
Then the figure appeared.
It emerged from the darkest corner of the room, coalescing slowly, deliberately. It was not entirely human, not entirely mist. Cloaked in darkness, it hovered inches above the floor, its edges shifting like smoke caught in a silent wind. Its face was obscured beneath the shadows, features constantly rearranging, never settling into anything she could recognize.
Liora felt an icy grip clamp around her chest.
Her breath caught painfully, trapped somewhere between terror and disbelief. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to scream, to fight—but she could do none of it. She could only stare.
"You've heard me," the figure said.
Its voice sounded like wind scraping through dry leaves—ancient, patient, and impossibly calm. "You know why I call."
She stumbled backward, nearly losing her balance. Her heart hammered violently, yet she couldn't look away. Fear and curiosity twisted together inside her, forming a dangerous pull that made her take a hesitant step forward despite herself.
"I— I don't know you," she said, her voice barely audible. "You shouldn't be here."
The figure did not move closer, but the shadows around it thickened.
"Do not be afraid… yet," it said, the tone softening, almost gentle. "But know this: your time has a shadow upon it."
Her mind reeled.
"Marked?" she whispered as the words continued. "Marked by what?"
"You are marked, Liora," the figure said calmly. "Marked, but not lost… not yet."
The words made no sense, and yet they resonated deep within her bones. A strange, primal recognition stirred inside her—like a forgotten memory surfacing from the depths of her soul. A part of her had always known this moment would come. Always felt watched. Always sensed something waiting just beyond reach.
The figure slowly receded, dissolving back into the shadows from which it came. The darkness folded in on itself until the corner of the room was empty once more.
Gone.
The silence that followed was worse than the whisper.
It was vast. Hollow. Expectant.
As though the night itself waited for her next move.
Liora's knees gave out. She sank to the floor, shivering violently, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The cold seeped into her bones, but it was nothing compared to the dread settling in her chest.
The whisper echoed one final time—not aloud, but inside her mind.
"Save… me…"
She understood then that it wasn't just a plea.
It was a warning.
A call.
And a promise of trials yet to come.
Something fundamental had shifted. The world felt thinner, more fragile, as if the veil between what was real and what was waiting had torn open.
From this night onward, Liora knew with terrifying certainty that life as she had known it was over.
And whatever had called to her…
Would call again.