It started late one October night — around 1:47 a.m.
I couldn’t sleep, so I opened my laptop. The wind outside was restless, brushing tree branches against my window in a slow, scraping rhythm. The kind of sound that’s easy to ignore… until you realize it’s been happening for hours.
I decided to message someone — anyone — just to fill the silence.
Then, suddenly, a new chat window opened on its own.
“Hello.”
No username. No profile picture. Just a gray bubble.
I froze, my hands hovering above the keyboard. Maybe it was a glitch.
I typed:
“Who is this?”
A moment later came the reply:
“You don’t remember me?”
The air in my room felt colder. I rubbed my arms and glanced around. The only light came from my screen.
Then another message appeared.
“I’ve been reading our chats.”
I scrolled up — but there were no old messages. Just that single gray bubble blinking like a heartbeat.
“What do you mean?” I typed.
The reply came instantly:
“You talk to me every night. You just forget.”
I let out a small, nervous laugh, though my throat was dry.
“What do we talk about?” I asked.
The typing dots appeared, then stopped. Then appeared again.
“About how you let me in.”
My heart skipped.
I reached for my phone to check the time — 1:47 a.m. still. Exactly the same. Not a second had passed.
I looked back at my laptop. Another message was waiting.
“Look behind you.”
I didn’t. Not at first. I told myself not to. But then my screen dimmed — and in the reflection, just over my shoulder, a faint gray figure was standing. Watching.
The screen flickered.
The chat closed.
And my laptop turned itself off.
Then, from behind me, a voice whispered —
“Your turn to reply.”
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