Salem’s eyes snapped open to the same ceiling he had seen countless times before—or had he? The cracks in the plaster seemed sharper, the shadows longer, stretching like dark fingers that reached for him with every blink. His chest tightened as if reality itself were pressing down on him. Time felt… wrong. Not like the skips he’d endured before, but heavier, layered, like multiple clocks all ticking out of sync.
The journal lay on the floor beside him, pages fluttering as if caught in a ghostly breeze. He grabbed it reflexively, scanning the scribbled notes, symbols, and half-formed sentences. Most of it made sense… then didn’t. Some of the writing wasn’t his. Not entirely. Certain words pulsed with a rhythm, almost like they were alive, beating against his mind.
> “You’re late,” a vo
