The Hollow Hours

Al sat at his kitchen table, staring at the journal entry in front of him. 

"You're fine. Stop questioning things. You don't need to remember." 

The words swam in his vision, twisting, shifting. His own handwriting—but he had no memory of writing them. 

His fingers hovered over the ink. It was dry. Had been for hours. Maybe a full day. 

Had he really written this? 

Had he already been here, done this, and then just… forgotten? 

The Shadow's voice purred. 

"Memory is fragile, Al. You should let me handle it." 

Al's pulse spiked. "No. You're not in control." 

A harsh chuckle. 

"That's adorable." 

He slammed the journal shut and pushed away from the table. He needed to ground himself. 

The apartment felt off. 

Not just the missing time. Not just the wrong things in the wrong places. 

It felt like… he wasn't the only one who had been here. 

The thought made his stomach churn. 

He scanned the room. The dim glow of the kitchen light flickered slightly. The TV remote lay on the couch—but he hadn't used the TV. His shoes, which he always kept by the door, were in the bathroom. 

A single coffee mug sat in the sink. 

Not one of his. 

A different shape. A different handle. 

Someone had been here. 

Or… he had been someone else. 

His fingers curled into fists. Focus. He needed to retrace his steps. But how do you retrace something when your own mind is betraying you? 

He looked toward the mirror on the wall. Avoiding it felt cowardly. He had to face himself. 

He stepped closer. His reflection stared back. Too still. 

He inhaled sharply, leaning forward. His breath fogged the glass. A small moment of reassurance. 

And then— 

His reflection blinked. 

Al hadn't.