He turned back to the kitchen. The microwave was no longer reflecting the room. It was showing a live feed of the notepad. And on that digital screen, a new line appeared: “Turn around. I’m finished typing.” The microwave timer let out a sharp, piercing BEEP .
Elias didn't turn around. He didn't have to. The chill on the back of his neck told him that the note was no longer online. It was in the room.
He reached the counter. The microwave’s glass surface was polished, acting as a perfect, dark mirror of the room behind him. He could see the edge of his unmade bed, the pile of laundry in the corner, and the back of his own head. Then he noticed the discrepancy. In the reflection, the laptop on his desk was closed. Note 11/19/2022 11:48:51 AM - Online Notepad
Elias grabbed the laptop to slam it shut, but the screen stayed upright, locked by an invisible force. The timestamp on the notepad began to count upward, faster and faster, blurring into a strobe light of digits.
In the reflection, the laptop remained shut. And there was something else. He turned back to the kitchen
Elias laughed, a dry, nervous sound that died quickly in his cramped studio apartment. It was a prank. It had to be. He’d left his laptop open while he went to grab the mail. Maybe his neighbor, Sarah, had slipped in? No, the door had been deadbolted.
He walked toward it, his hand reaching for the refrigerator handle, but his eyes were locked on that digital note. Why that specific time? Why that specific warning? And on that digital screen, a new line
The cursor blinked steadily against the white digital void of the online notepad, a silent witness to the silence of the room. At the top, the timestamp sat like a tombstone: .