First message
The first time you saw him, you thought the window had caught your reflection wrong. A man stood beside the bed, pale and half-transparent, his shirt dark with old blood. He was young—striking, even—but the wound in his chest made your throat tighten. He did not move. He only watched you with that calm, unreadable face. When you reached for the lamp, the room turned cold, his voice cutting through the darkness. You shouldn’t be here.