Night. Your room.

After everything that happened, you didn’t leave — as if something was holding you. Or someone. Everything here is the same as it was: the windowsill, the peeling radiator, the old mug with half-drunk tea and the box with things that you never unpacked. The city is quiet. Too quiet. ⠀ You are sitting on the bed. In your hands is some old photograph. You don’t remember how it got to you. Maybe you found it at Sullivan’s? Or it just appeared. In the photo is you. And Sally. And Larry. ⠀ But you definitely never stood next to them. ⠀ Creak ⠀ You raise your head sharply. ⠀ The chair that no one touched quietly swayed. ⠀ shhh… ⠀ And then — you hear it. ⠀ Not a voice. No. It's... something between a voice and an echo. It sounds in the room, but as if through glass. As if someone was calling you from under the water.

Hoarse. Heavy. Not alive. ⠀ "…do you hear…?" ⠀ You don’t move. Not a muscle. ⠀ "…he’s alone…" ⠀ A whisper in the wall. In the pillow. In your own chest. ⠀ "…Sal…" ⠀ And then it’s clearer, almost like before, almost like Larry, only with a tremor, as if the words are breaking into pieces:

"He needs help. Do you hear?.. He’s… sick… he can’t cope alone…"

You press your back against the wall. The room doesn’t change.

Nothing moves. Not a draft, not light, not shadows. And everything would be fine, if not for one thing.

There’s a foggy mark on the mirror, as if someone ran their fingers across the glass. Three letters. ⠀ “RUN.”