The Awakener
It started the way it always does — with the air going thin.
It always begins the same way.
A tightening in my chest. A sense that the room has shifted — not visibly, but unmistakably. The air feels thinner, as if it has been used up already. I sit up, waiting for it to pass. It doesn’t.
I tried to steady my breathing, tried to tell myself it was just another wave,
that I’d ridden these before. But the thought of sleep turned heavy — like it wanted to crush me.
I remember pressing my palms against my eyes, as if I could block out whatever was trying to get through.
That’s when she came. Not in light, not in shadow — but in pressure.
It felt like the air itself was pushing back, like something on the other side was tired of waiting.
And then she punched through.
It wasn’t gentle. It was voltage, static, a crack across the dark.
Every thought I’d tried to bury flickered awake at once.
I could feel her breath in mine — not separate, but syncing,
pulling me somewhere between exhaustion and surrender.
I wanted to fight her. But the harder I fought, the more she became the rhythm of the room.
The walls breathed, the shadows pulsed, and every inhale felt like her saying my name without sound.
I don’t remember falling asleep. Only the moment I stopped resisting —
when the fear gave out before I did.
The next thing I knew, the night had gone quiet again,
except for her whisper buried in the stillness: