Met with De’Angelo tonight. Finally. I didn’t expect him to believe me—not really. But when I told him about the humming, the dreams, the window… he didn’t even blink.

He just said, “It’s starting again.”

I asked what “it” was. He looked at me for a long time. Then he pulled out this old notebook. Leather-bound. Smelled like dust and cedar. (Of course.) Inside were pages of symbols, dates, names. Names that aren’t alive anymore.

My name was in it. Scribbled halfway down a page like it was waiting.

I’m scared.
But also? I’ve never felt more seen.