Black rain on call One secret

Black rain 6:45

At 6:45 PM, for the tenth day in a row, my phone rang.

I already knew the number before I looked at the screen. I had memorized it against my will, the way you remember the face of someone who once scared you in a crowd. Unknown. No name. No location. Just digits burned into my mind.

I stood on the wide sidewalk, the city breathing around me—engines humming, horns arguing, lights blinking like restless eyes. Cars streamed past in both directions, their drivers confident, purposeful. I used to imagine myself behind one of those wheels someday, gripping the steering wheel of my own future. That dream felt childish now.

The phone kept ringing.

People brushed past me, unaware that my world had narrowed down to that vibrating rectangle in my hand. Ten days ago, I would have ignored it without hesitation. I never answered calls from numbers I didn’t recognize. That rule had protected me for years.

But rules weaken when curiosity grows teeth.

I answered.

“Hello?” My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

Silence.

At first, I thought the call had dropped. Then I heard it—soft, uneven breathing, as if someone were holding the phone too close to their mouth. No words. No background noise. Just breath.

“Hello?” I repeated.

The breathing continued.

A chill crawled up my spine. I ended the call and stared at my screen, half-expecting it to ring again immediately. It didn’t. But the damage was done. Something had shifted. I could feel it, like a door closing behind me.

That night, I slept poorly. The sound of breathing followed me into my dreams.

The next morning, at exactly 6:45 AM, my phone rang again.

This time, it was my friend.

Relief flooded my chest when I saw her name. I answered too quickly. She sounded tense, rushed. She asked me to meet her at a restaurant nearby—within thirty minutes. She said it was urgent.

It was Sunday. I hated early mornings on Sundays. Still, something in her voice made me agree without hesitation.

When I arrived, the restaurant was nearly empty. The smell of coffee and fried eggs hung heavy in the air. I chose a table near the window and checked my watch. 7:15.

She was late.

That alone wouldn’t have worried me—if it weren’t for the night before.

By 7:30, unease had settled into my stomach. She had never stood me up before. Not once. I sent a message. No reply. I waited another fifteen minutes before calling her.

The phone rang.

“Hello?” I said.

Silence.

Then breathing.

The same slow, deliberate breathing I had heard the night before.

My heart began to race. “Who is this?” I demanded. “If you have a problem with me, talk to me. Don’t drag my friends into this.”

The call ended.

I sat frozen, the restaurant noise fading into a dull blur. People laughed at another table. A waitress refilled coffee cups. The world continued as if nothing had happened.

I left without touching my food.

The walk back to my apartment felt longer than usual. Every stranger looked suspicious. Every parked car felt like it might start moving if I turned my back. When I reached my building, I noticed the elevator was out of order—again. I took the stairs, two at a time.

My door was open.

I stopped breathing.

Inside, my apartment was chaos. Drawers pulled out. Papers scattered. Books knocked from shelves. Someone had been searching—thoroughly, urgently. Yet my bedroom was untouched. The bed neatly made. Nothing disturbed.

I called the police.

They arrived, inspected the apartment, asked routine questions. In the end, they told me there were no signs of forced entry.

“Maybe you forgot to lock the door,” one of them suggested.

“I didn’t,” I said.

“Anyone else have a key?”

“No.”

The key was still in my pocket.

That night, sleep refused to come. I replayed everything again and again, searching for logic. A prank? Too precise. Too calculated. Someone knew my routine. My timing.

Later, I noticed something else.

My neighbor’s blue Camry was gone.

The next day, I returned to the restaurant. The waitress remembered me. When I asked if anyone had been asking about me, her expression changed. She described a man—tall, blond hair, calm voice. She mentioned the tattoo on his right arm. A star.

I didn’t recognize him. But the blue Camry lodged itself firmly in my thoughts.

That evening, at 6:45 PM, the phone rang again.

This time, I answered immediately.

No breathing.

Music.

An old song—Majida El Roumi’s Kalimat. No lyrics. Just the melody, soft and distant, as if playing from another room. It didn’t fit the fear. It didn’t fit the threat. And that made it worse.

The call ended without explanation.

I didn’t sleep that night either.

By morning, I knew one thing: nothing about this was random.

If the blue Camry mattered, I needed to find it.

I walked for hours, scanning side streets and empty lots. Just when exhaustion began to dull my senses, I saw it—parked near a deserted street, the familiar shade of blue unmistakable.

The rear window was slightly open.

Inside, the car was messy. Fast food wrappers. A jacket. And on the dashboard—a small black notebook.

I shouldn’t have touched it.

I did anyway.

The pages were filled with notes. Names. Numbers. One thing repeated over and over:

6:45.

Some phrases made my blood run cold.

He doesn’t remember.

The file must stay hidden.

If he wakes up, everything collapses.

I felt eyes on me.

Across the street, a tall man leaned against a lamppost. Blond hair. Calm expression. His sleeve slid back just enough to reveal a star-shaped tattoo.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“You’ve been calling me,” I replied.

He looked at the notebook in my hands.

“No,” he said. “You’ve been calling yourself.”

My heart stopped.

“What I want,” he continued softly, “is for you to remember something you were never supposed to forget.”

He stepped closer.

“Because this isn’t the first time you’ve played this game