The old woman didn't wait for a response. The moment the words left her mouth, she turned and headed toward the stairwell. Her pace wasn't hurried, but there was something final about it, as though she had already decided she'd said more than she should have. A second later the stairwell door closed behind her, leaving Kenji alone in the hallway.
For several seconds he remained where he was.
The building felt unusually quiet.
Not empty.
Just quiet in a way that made every small sound stand out.
The hum of the fluorescent lights.
The distant vibration of plumbing somewhere behind the walls.
The soft buzzing of the elevator at the far end of the corridor.
Kenji rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a slow breath.
This was ridiculous.
A dead man wakes up in a hospital.
A bookstore owner starts talking about things that shouldn't exist.
An elderly neighbor claims she's been hearing someone who sounds exactly like him walking around at night.
Any normal person would've dismissed it.
He wanted to dismiss it.
The problem was that too many things had already happened.
The reflection.
The footprints.
The silhouette.
Every explanation he came up with lasted a few minutes before reality found a way to punch a hole through it.
Eventually he stepped back inside and locked the door.
The familiar click should've made him feel safer.
It didn't.
His apartment looked exactly the same as before.
The couch sat where it always had.
The television remained dark.
The kitchen light still glowed softly from the corner.
Nothing appeared out of place.
And yet the entire room felt wrong.
Like entering your own home and realizing someone had been there while you were away.
Not enough to steal anything.
Just enough to leave evidence.
Kenji tossed his keys onto the table and froze.
The sound echoed longer than it should have.
Metal striking wood.
Then silence.
Then another faint clink.
His eyes narrowed.
The keys were no longer moving.
Yet somehow he had heard them settle twice.
He stared at them for a moment before shaking his head.
Maybe he was tired.
Maybe the hospital, the accident, everything else had finally started catching up with him.
That explanation lasted all of ten seconds.
His attention shifted toward the television.
The unplugged digital clock beneath it was glowing again.
The numbers shone faintly in the darkness.
11:17 PM.
Kenji immediately walked over and checked the outlet.
Still unplugged.
He checked the cable.
Nothing.
No batteries either.
The clock shouldn't have been functioning.
Yet there it was.
11:18.
11:19.
Steadily counting forward as if nothing was wrong.
A cold sensation settled in his stomach.
He reached out and grabbed it.
The display instantly went black.
For a brief second he almost laughed.
Then the numbers returned.
Not on the clock.
On the television screen.
3:03.
Bright red.
Centered.
Kenji took a step backward.
The screen flickered.
The numbers vanished.
The television returned to normal.
Blank.
Dead.
The room remained silent.
He could feel his pulse now.
Not racing.
Just louder.
More noticeable.
The same way every sound seemed louder lately.
The same way every shadow seemed deeper.
Slowly he sat down.
His eyes drifted toward the old leather-bound book resting on the coffee table.
The one the bookstore owner had practically forced into his hands.
For a while he considered leaving it alone.
Curiosity won.
It always did.
He pulled the book closer and opened it.
The pages looked ordinary.
Yellowed with age.
Nothing written on them.
He flipped through several pages.
Still nothing.
Just paper.
Kenji was about to close it when something caught his attention.
Near the center of the book, a faint line appeared.
Not printed.
Not written.
Appearing.
As though ink was slowly rising from beneath the page itself.
His hand froze.
The line spread.
Then another.
Letters formed one after another.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Kenji watched as a single sentence emerged.
IT REMEMBERED YOU FIRST.
His chest tightened.
The message remained there for several seconds.
Then the ink faded.
The letters dissolved back into the paper until the page became blank once more.
Kenji closed the book immediately.
This time he didn't try explaining it.
Didn't tell himself there had to be a reason.
Didn't convince himself he was imagining things.
Because deep down he already knew.
Whatever had followed him back from death wasn't getting closer.
It had already been close.
The thought sent a chill through him.
And somewhere in the apartment, something made a sound.
A soft scrape.
Almost like a chair being dragged across the floor.
Kenji slowly lifted his head.
The sound came from the hallway leading toward his bedroom.
He stared into the darkness.
Nothing moved.
Nothing appeared.
Yet the feeling returned.
That same sensation he'd experienced since waking up.
The feeling that he wasn't alone.
And this time, for the first time, he couldn't shake the impression that whatever was there had been waiting for him to realize it.