Ryan's own palm was still pressed against the window glass when the second handprint appeared.
His fingers tingled—not cold, not warm, but absent. Like the glass was drinking heat from his skin. The handprint on the other side was identical to his: same size, same scar patterns, same faint silver residue that should have faded weeks ago.
He pulled his hand away.
The other handprint stayed.
"You're not real," Ryan said.
The glass fogged. Letters formed in the condensation—not a message, just a single word.
HELP.
Ryan's blood ran cold. "Old man? Is that you?"
No answer. The old man had been silent since the anchor went dormant. But this—this was different. This was his reflection, or what used to be his reflection, trapped on the other side of the glass.
Nelson appeared behind him.
