When I moved into the neighborhood, I noticed Mr. Grayson. He lived next door. He was a man in his mid-40s, or so I thought. He tended to his garden, sat on his porch, and waved at me when I passed by. He was quiet, but friendly. Years passed. Mr. Grayson didn’t change. I noticed it more each year. He looked the same. Same face, same hair. He didn’t age. At first, I thought it was coincidence. Maybe I was imagining things. But as time passed, I couldn’t ignore it. He didn’t age. No wrinkles. No graying hair. He looked the same as when I first moved in. I became obsessed. I started taking pictures of him, one each year. Same porch. Same smile. No change. Friends didn’t believe me. “He just has good genes,” they’d say. “Lucky guy.” But I knew something was wrong. I watched him every day. He was always there. Always in the same routine. He never seemed to leave the house for more than a few hours. He never looked tired. I noticed every detail. His clothes didn’t change. His movements were...

I’ve always feared the dark. Not a typical fear, but fear of one thing: a figure. It started as a kid. I’d wake in the night, and in the corner of my room—always there—a shadow. It didn’t move, didn’t do anything, just stood. I’d tell myself it was a trick of the light, and pull my pillow over my head. But each night, it returned. And then it changed. The shadow became clearer. It looked like a person now—tall, hunched. And it moved. Not like a person, just slow shifts, as though testing its form. I still convinced myself it was nothing. But I couldn’t stop looking at it. It felt... wrong. One night, I woke to a sensation—something cold against my leg. I froze. The shadow had moved. It stood close. And then, it reached out. The touch was cold. Too cold. Like ice, but also not solid. My body locked up. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. The shadow retreated, returning to the corner as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t sleep after that. The next day, I brushed it off as a nightmare. But...

I never thought much about fate. Life, for me, was always quiet—work, sleep, repeat. I had dreams, sure, but I knew what was realistic, possible. Until I met him. It happened by chance—or so I thought. I was at my regular café on lunch, checking emails. It was crowded, the usual weekday rush, when I felt it—a pair of eyes on me. I glanced up. There, standing at the counter, was a man who looked exactly like me. Taller, straighter posture, but it was my face—my eyes, my hair, my expression. The resemblance was so uncanny it froze me in place. My breath caught. I couldn’t look away. He turned, seemingly oblivious, and took his coffee from the barista. I watched him, trying to shake off the discomfort building in my chest. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a coincidence. Until I saw him glance over at me—catching my stare. His expression shifted. He smiled. It was a strange, knowing smile, like he was aware of something I wasn’t. “Good to see you,” he said, his voice perfectly matching m...