De’Angelo called at 3 a.m. He doesn’t do that. He said the energy around me was “fracturing”—like glass before a break. He kept asking if I was alone. I said yes.

He said, “You won’t be for long.”

He’s making me an audio sigil. Something to play while I sleep, to anchor me to my body. He says whatever’s hunting me doesn’t want me—it wants my history. My voice. My story. And once it knows enough, it can take shape.

What happens if it does?

He didn’t answer.

I’m scared, but I’m not leaving yet. Something tells me there’s still time. Still meaning here. Still something I’m meant to remember.
Or stop.

Tomorrow, I meet him one last time. He said we need to go back to the tree. Together.