there, suffocating in the silence beneath the bed. Who was this man, and how did he know my name? The familiarity of his voice gnawed at the edges of my memory, but I couldn’t quite place it.

The shadow lingered, and I could hear him rummaging through my drawers. Each drawer creaked open, the sound magnified in the tense stillness. He rifled through my belongings with an air of frustration, muttering to himself now and then. “Where is it?” he kept saying, his irritation growing with each passing minute.

Every second felt like an eternity. My heart was pounding so fiercely I feared he might hear it. I felt trapped, paralyzed by fear, yet my mind was screaming for action. I strained my ears, trying to catch every word, every sound, that might give me a clue about his identity or intentions.

Then, in a sudden moment of clarity, I remembered. The voice wasn’t just familiar; it was mine. The realization hit me with a force that nearly knocked the air from my lungs. This man, this intruder, was somehow using my own voice. But how? And why?

The footsteps shuffled about the room one last time before retreating into the hallway, moving toward the living room. I heard the faint clang of a chair being pulled out, then silence. It was as if he was waiting for something—or someone.

Gathering courage, I slowly and silently crawled out from under the bed. My hands shook with adrenaline, but I forced them to still as I picked up my phone from the nightstand. I dialed the police, my voice barely a whisper as I explained the situation. They promised to send someone immediately, urging me to stay hidden.

I crept to the bedroom door, peering down the hallway. The man was sitting at my dining table, his back to me, examining something in his hands. Curiosity battled fear, and I inched closer, keeping to the shadows.

When I was close enough, I saw what he was holding: my journal. It was open, with pages flipped through carelessly. He was reading my words—my thoughts, fears, dreams.

Then he spoke again, this time more thoughtfully. “Marcus, Marcus… Always writing, always dreaming. But you never do anything, do you?”

My own voice mocked me from across the room. A rush of anger coursed through me. How dare he invade my home, my privacy—and taunt me with my own voice?

I stayed hidden, knowing confrontation could be dangerous. My phone vibrated silently in my hand, a text from the police: “Officers are outside. Exit safely if possible.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and moved back to the side door. I slipped outside quietly and met the officers, explaining the bizarre situation. They entered with caution, and moments later, I heard a scuffle and the man’s voice—my voice—protesting.

They emerged, escorting a man who wore my face, yet wasn’t me. It was like staring into a twisted mirror. The doppelgänger was silent now, eyes filled with an unsettling calm.

As they led him away, I wondered if I’d ever truly feel safe again. Who was he? And how long had he been watching me, learning me? The questions swirled as I stood there, the afternoon sun casting long shadows at my feet—shadows that seemed to whisper secrets I wasn’t yet ready to hear.