In the reflection, the laptop remained shut. And there was something else.
Elias lunged for the laptop, desperate to delete the note, to close the tab, to break the connection. His fingers hit the keys, but the keyboard felt like cold stone. He looked at the screen. The text was changing in real-time, appearing faster than any human could type.
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. Note 11/19/2022 11:48:51 AM - Online Notepad
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.
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? In the reflection, the laptop remained shut
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: .
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. His fingers hit the keys, but the keyboard
His stomach gave a hungry growl. He’d been planning to heat up some leftover Thai food. He stood up, his eyes darting toward the kitchenette. The microwave sat there, a box of black glass and brushed steel. From this angle, it was just a shadow.