The first thing I noticed was the darkness. My room was the kind
of dark that presses against your eyelids, the kind that isn't just
absence of light but the weight of everything waiting. My digital
clock glowed 3:33 a.m., the numbers fluorescent and steady, like
they were carved into the air. And as usual, I was awake, lying
on my back with my hands folded across my stomach, waiting
for the whisper I'd been hearing for seven nights straight.
"Watch... for the storm will come."
It was the same words every night, delivered like a soft breeze
that could cut glass if it wanted. I rolled onto my side and pulled
my journal closer. The pen felt cold in my fingers, but as soon
as it touched paper, it seemed to warm under my touch, guided
by a force I didn't understand. I wrote:
Watch... for the storm will come.