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The first thing I noticed was the darkness. My room was the kind of dark that presses against your eyelids, the kind that isn't just absence of light but the weight of everything waiting. My digital clock glowed 3:33 a.m., the numbers fluorescent and steady, like they were carved into the air. And as usual, I was awake, lying on my back with my hands folded across my stomach, waiting for the whisper I'd been hearing for seven nights straight. ""Watch... for the storm will come."" It was the same words every night, delivered like a soft breeze that could cut glass if it wanted. I rolled onto my side and pulled my journal closer. The pen felt cold in my fingers, but as soon as it touched paper, it seemed to warm under my touch, guided by a force I didn't understand. I wrote: Watch... for the storm will come.

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