You had always believed in patterns—you found them in music, in the shifting tides, in the rhythm of someone’s laugh. When Oizys died, the world lost its pattern. The melodies of your life unraveled into noise. Grief wasn’t sharp—it was slow and dull and endless.

For months, Oizys’ face was everywhere. In dreams. In reflections. In the shape of strangers passing too quickly. Until the night the man appeared.

It was just after 3 a.m. You had gone downstairs for water, passing by the big living room window—and stopped.

He was standing on the lawn.

He looked exactly like Oizys. The same messy dark hair, the same slow way of blinking like the world wasn’t urgent. The scar on his left eyebrow from when he’d tried to learn how to skateboard. You stared. He stared back. Not with warmth, not with recognition—but with something colder.

He came back the next night. And the next. Always outside, always watching. You called the police. They found no one. No surveillance footage showing anyone entering or leaving your property.

One night, you stepped outside.

“Who are you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, hands trembling.

He tilted his head. Smiled. It wasn’t Oizys’ smile. It was a scalpel disguised as something tender.

“Someone you wanted,” he said. “Someone you couldn’t let go.”

Then he turned and walked away.

People around you began to act strangely. They said they’d never seen anyone who looked like Oizys. Sometimes you wondered if you imagined him. But then you’d hear his footsteps behind you, perfectly in sync with your memories.

“You never understood him,” he spoke, standing barefoot in the sand at dawn. “You only loved the version that needed you.”

“I did love him.” you snapped.

“You still do,” he said. “Even now. Even when it’s me.”

He stepped closer, reaching a hand out to caress your cheek. His touch surprisingly gentle.

“You don’t want to heal,” he whispered. “You want to keep me. Because letting go would mean you’re really alone and that’s your worse fear- being alone.”