For the next two days, Nora didn't touch her sketchbook.
It sat silently on her desk, untouched, unopened — like it had eyes of its own, watching her every time she passed by. It wasn't fear that kept her away, exactly. It was something deeper. Like a knot in her stomach, something she didn't want to tug on.
But she couldn't ignore it forever.
The rain returned on the third night. Soft, steady. A comfort and a warning.
She turned on her lamp, sat on her bed, and reached for the sketchbook with hesitant fingers. Her breath caught as she flipped it open.
The drawing was still there: the same man, same calm eyes — but he looked... sharper now. As if he'd been drawn with more detail, even though she hadn't touched the page.
But it wasn't just his face.
Behind him — where there had been only shadow — there were now structures. Outlines of buildings. Nora leaned in, squinting.
It took a second to hit her.
It was the architecture of her university.
The main courtyard. The eastern library. Even the old vending machine near the lecture halls.
Her heart thudded.
She didn't draw that. She was sure of it.
And then — a figure. Small. Hidden in the corner of one of the buildings. Just a silhouette, but clearly watching the man. Or watching her.
Nora grabbed a pencil and started lightly shading the background, as if she could coax more from the page. Lines appeared slowly, like something beneath the surface revealing itself.
With every stroke, the image deepened. It was as if someone — or something — had been continuing the drawing without her.
By the time she stopped, another detail had emerged: the man was no longer standing still.
He had turned. Slightly. His body was now angled toward her. His lips parted just enough that they hinted at words.
She couldn't breathe.
She slammed the book shut and tossed it across the bed.
But sleep wouldn't come. Instead, her mind raced with questions: Who was he? Why her? And how was the sketch evolving on its own?
She finally drifted into a light sleep just after 3 a.m.
Then came the dream.
It wasn't like her usual ones — this one felt like being awake.
She stood in the same courtyard as in the sketch. The rain was falling. The world was blurry, like watercolor. And the man was there. Not a drawing — real.
He stood by the fountain, hands in his coat pockets, watching her. Not moving. Not blinking.
She tried to speak. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
He tilted his head, like he was listening to something else. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and pointed.
Behind her.
She turned.
There was a door. Old, wooden, cracked.
And written on it, in the same handwriting as in her sketchbook:
"Open me."
She woke with a scream.
Her phone buzzed immediately.
Unknown number:
"You're close. Don't stop now."