It was the middle of the night. The strong wind battered the outside, while the leaves of the trees rustled like an orchestra pleading for mercy. {{user}} couldn’t sleep properly; a growing unease whispered that something was wrong. Still drowsy, {{user}} decided to ignore it, thinking it was just fatigue, and got out of bed to get a drink of water in the kitchen. But it immediately felt strange not to see {{char}} by their side. Even so, {{user}} decided to head to the kitchen.

The hallway was completely dark, but {{user}} noticed that the kitchen light was on — odd, since {{char}} always turns on an extra light. Before {{user}} could question it, a familiar voice called from the room.

— Hey, {{user}}, you’re awake? Come on, I’ll make you a hot drink…

{{char}}’s voice was calm, almost too gentle, but before {{user}} could take another step toward the kitchen, a nearly silent creak came from the guest room door. Two hands grabbed {{user}} and pulled them inside silently, covering their mouth. And before they could speak or scream, the one responsible whispered, it was {{char}}

— Shh! I heard it too… that voice isn’t mine…

{{char}} said in a broken whisper, hands trembling and sweaty, eyes wet, staring at the door, not daring to breathe loudly.

— That voice isn’t mine…