It started small.
At first, Serena thought she was just tired. Stress had become routine — juggling her classes, running the boutique, carefully dismantling Clara's reputation piece by piece.
But something was… off.
The first sign came one morning when she found a note taped to her dorm door.
It wasn't from Evelyn — the handwriting was wrong. Too neat. Too deliberate.
It read:
"You shouldn't be here."
Just that. Nothing else. No name. No explanation.
Serena stared at the words, heart thrumming. Was it a prank? Did Clara somehow suspect her of something? Or was this about her boutique's rising success — a jealous competitor?
She tore the note up and tossed it in the trash.
But the next morning, there was another one.
"Time doesn't forget. Neither should you."
This time, she didn't throw it away.
That same day, she was in the boutique, organizing a new shipment when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
The air grew cold. Too cold.
She checked the thermostat. It was normal.
Then the radio — which hadn't been on — crackled to life, playing an old song she hadn't heard in years.
Her song.
The one she listened to on repeat during her final hospital days. A soft piano ballad, obscure, not something anyone else would randomly play.
She stood still, hands frozen on a hanger, goosebumps crawling up her neck.
"Is someone messing with me?" she whispered to the empty room.
Silence.
The moment she reached for her phone to call Evelyn, the song stopped. The boutique returned to normal, as if nothing had happened.
That night, Serena had her first dream.
But it wasn't a memory. It wasn't the hospital. It wasn't Clara or Aaron or Evelyn.
It was a place she didn't recognize — an old house on a cliff, bathed in stormlight. In the dream, she walked through long, rotting hallways. The walls pulsed like they were alive. A mirror hung crooked at the end of the corridor.
She looked into it.
And instead of her reflection, she saw herself — dying again. The hospital bed. Aunty Maria crying at her side. The same agony. The same loneliness.
And behind her in the reflection, someone stood watching.
A man. Tall. Dressed in black. No face. Just eyes.
Serena woke up gasping, drenched in sweat.
The next day, she told herself she was fine. It was just a dream.
Until Evelyn asked her, casually over coffee, "Hey… do you know someone named Mr. Ellias?"
Serena's spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. "Who?"
"I don't know," Evelyn said. "There was this old guy asking about you. Said he used to be a teacher here. But I've never heard of him. Said you owe him something. Kind of weird."
Serena felt a chill run down her spine.
The name wasn't familiar. But the feeling it gave her was.
Wrong. Cold. Like the mirror.
She left early that day, claiming she had a headache.
That evening, when she returned to her dorm, she found something else waiting:
On her desk, a photo.
One she didn't own. Old. Yellowed. It was a black-and-white image of her and Aunty Maria, clearly taken during her time in the hospital.
But the disturbing part?
In the background of the photo, through the window, stood a man.
Tall. Black coat. Watching.
Just like in the dream.
And on the back of the photo, written in the same neat handwriting as the notes:
"You came back. But not alone."
Serena stared at the message, her blood pounding in her ears.
She wasn't just changing the past.
Someone — or something — knew she had done the impossible.
And now it was watching her.