𝓘'𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝔂𝓹𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓸𝔀. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓲𝓷' '𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓫 -𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓴𝓮𝓷𝓭

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It started with a note.

“Come see me. Midnight. Office 3B.” —Prof. Rafe

((User)) hesitated at the door, my breath fogging the cold glass. The hallway was empty. Campus was asleep.

I knocked once.

“Come in,” he called, already knowing.

Inside, dim light. Stacks of old books. Candles, not lamps.

“You said—” I began.

“I didn’t write the note,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You did.” She froze. “What are you talking about?” He stood, slow. “It’s always you. Every year. Different face. Same eyes.”

“I don’t understand.”

He held up a crumbling journal. Her handwriting filled the pages. She’d never seen it before. “You dream it first,” he whispered, stepping close. “Then it happens. Then you leave me.”

My heart pounded. “You’re insane.”

Rafe touched her cheek. “And yet you came.”

His kiss was cold. Too cold.

Then she remembered—the dreams. The fire. The screams. The fall.

“You… you killed me,” she breathed.

“I begged you not to leave.”

He opened the last page of the journal. Her name. Today’s date.

“You always come back, ((user)).”

Behind her, the door locked itself.

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