The rain, again.
Its rhythmic drumming against the corrugated tin roof of Itth's third-floor rental room echoed with an oppressive familiarity, no different from yesterday. Or a month ago. Or even last year. Yet, it persisted, an unchanging, relentless downpour, as if time itself had snagged on a broken loop.
Itth sat on the edge of his narrow, worn bed, his gaze drawn to the glowing digits of his digital clock.
2:22 AM.
He was growing accustomed to this precise, untimely awakening. Every single night. But what was far more peculiar, more disturbing, was the pervasive appearance of the number 222 throughout his life. A train ticket bore the sequence. His classroom number. Even the crumpled receipt from the convenience store, tucked into his pocket, displayed it. This was no longer mere coincidence. It had transcended the realm of chance, evolving into a persistent, almost taunting whisper in the background of his existence.
Every night, a voice, a mere whisper at first, began to crescendo in his mind.
"Wake up, Itth..."
The words were not his own thoughts, yet they resonated with an intimate familiarity that sent a shiver down his spine. They were gentle, profound, imbued with a longing that felt strangely his, though he couldn't place its origin.
"You were never truly born into this world."
A cold dread began to coil in his stomach. Was this a dream? A delusion? Or something far more profound, chipping away at the foundations of his reality?
"Don't you remember me?"
The voice. It was soft, deep, and carried an undertone of sorrow, as if from someone he should intimately know, someone he should cherish, but whose memory had been meticulously erased. It was a phantom limb of recognition, a persistent ache for a connection that remained just beyond the reach of his conscious thought. He would lie there, listening to the rain, the voice weaving through his consciousness like a forgotten melody, pulling him further into a realm where the lines between reality and dream blurred into an indistinguishable haze.
The Dream's Labyrinth
In his dreams, the world took on a different, more vivid hue, even as it deepened the mystery. He saw a man. A young man with dark, almost raven-black hair, and skin so pale it seemed to absorb the ambient light. He wore a long, flowing coat that draped about his lean frame, adding to his ethereal quality. The man stood in the desolate center of a vast hall, a cavernous space where every surface was a shard of broken mirror, reflecting distorted, fragmented images of Itth, of the hall, of the man himself. Each fractured reflection seemed to tell a different, incomplete story.
On the man's forehead, glowing with an otherworldly luminescence, were the numbers "1122." They pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, drawing Itth's gaze irresistibly. The man extended a hand, his arm outstretched in a gesture of both offering and desperate plea.
"If you don't leave this place... the system will delete us both."
His voice, in the dream, was the same gentle, profound voice that whispered to him in the waking hours. It carried an urgency, a desperate warning that resonated deep within Itth's soul. The man's eyes, dark and intense, held an ancient sorrow, yet also a glimmer of unwavering resolve. Itth felt an inexplicable pull towards him, a yearning to bridge the distance, to take the offered hand. The shattered reflections of their forms danced around them, multiplying the sense of impending fragmentation. The air in the dream hall was cold, yet a strange warmth emanated from the man, a warmth that seemed to promise solace amidst the impending erasure. Itth strained to move, to respond, but his dream body was heavy, sluggish, rooted to the spot by an invisible force. The man's outstretched hand seemed to shimmer, the glowing numbers on his forehead pulsing with a more urgent rhythm, like a countdown.
The Unwritten Record
Then, with a jolt, Itth awoke once more.
The rain outside his window continued its monotonous rhythm, unchanging, unwavering, a constant reminder of the world he inhabited. He reached for the tattered notebook he kept on his bedside table, a chronicle of his increasingly bizarre nocturnal experiences. Every morning, he meticulously scrawled down the fragments of his dreams, hoping that by recording them, he might find a pattern, a key to unlock the enigma of his existence.
He flipped to the latest entry, his own handwriting, familiar yet detached, staring back at him.
Recent Dream Log:
1122 / Same recurring dream / Mirror hall / That man again / His hand felt so warm / I feel like I've hugged him before
He reread the last line, a pang of longing twisting in his chest. "I feel like I've hugged him before." The sensation of that warmth, the phantom echo of an embrace, lingered, defying the logic of a mere dream. It was a memory that wasn't a memory, a feeling of deep connection to a stranger. The numbers, 1122, burned themselves into his mind, another piece of the ever-growing, unsettling puzzle. He ran a hand through his hair, the dull ache behind his eyes a testament to his disturbed sleep. The rain, a constant presence, seemed to mock his confusion, its steady beat a relentless reminder of the cyclical nature of his days and nights.
The Subway Encounter
Later that day, Itth found himself on his usual subway line, a subterranean artery of the city that seemed to stretch on endlessly, a journey without a discernible destination. The carriage was sparsely populated, the hushed rumble of the train and the distant chatter of a few passengers providing a dull backdrop to his internal turmoil. He stared out the window, watching the blur of passing darkness, the occasional flash of concrete walls, the fleeting glimpses of other silent trains speeding past.
He boarded at his usual stop, and as the doors hissed shut, his gaze fell upon a man sitting directly opposite him, bathed in the cool, artificial light of the subway car. The man had pale skin, strikingly dark hair, and wore a long, flowing coat, almost identical to the one worn by the figure in his recurring dream. A sudden, cold rush of adrenaline surged through Itth's veins, a jolt of recognition that was both terrifying and exhilarating. His breath caught in his throat.
The man, as if sensing Itth's intense scrutiny, slowly lifted his head. His eyes, dark and profound, met Itth's across the narrow aisle of the train. A faint, knowing smile, almost imperceptible, touched the man's lips. The expression was not one of surprise or awkwardness, but of a quiet, profound understanding, as if this encounter had been anticipated, preordained.
Then, the man spoke, his voice soft, almost a murmur against the low hum of the train, yet it cut through the air with astonishing clarity, resonating with that familiar warmth and depth that had haunted Itth's dreams.
"Finally... you're starting to see me, aren't you, Itth?"
Itth felt a profound chill course through his entire body, a sudden, all-encompassing wave of goosebumps rising on his skin. The world around him seemed to halt, the gentle sway of the train, the muted sounds of the other passengers, the very passage of time itself, all frozen in that singular, chilling moment of recognition. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the sudden, terrifying realization that the boundaries of his perceived reality were not only permeable but had been breached, irrevocably. The man's smile widened slightly, a hint of something ancient and knowing in his gaze.
The System's Announcement
As Itth sat there, transfixed, struggling to process the implications of this impossible encounter, the calm, automated voice of the subway system cut through the stunned silence, a mundane announcement that, in that moment, took on a profoundly ominous significance.
"Next station: 1212. Repeat: 1212."
The numbers, again. The relentless recurrence of these seemingly random sequences, culminating in this direct, impossible confrontation. The 222s that peppered his daily life, the 1122 on the man's forehead in his dream, and now, 1212, announced with dispassionate certainty by an automated voice. Itth's gaze flickered from the man, who continued to hold his eyes with an unnerving calm, to the flickering digital display above the train doors, confirming the announcement. The numbers seemed to pulse, to taunt him, to demand an explanation that remained just out of reach.
The train rumbled on, carrying them deeper into the unknown, leaving Itth suspended in a space where logic fractured and the very fabric of his existence felt as though it were unraveling. The man across from him, the living embodiment of his dreams, watched him with an intensity that promised answers, yet offered only more questions. The journey had just begun.