For the first time in weeks, Kenzo felt normal.

No strange thoughts. No borrowed calm. No whispers brushing the edges of his mind. He laughed easily, slept deeply, and woke without that heavy awareness sitting in his chest.

He told himself it was over.

The message never came back. The reflections behaved. The city felt like a place he belonged to again. Even Tunde noticed the change. “You’re back,” he said one evening, smiling with relief.

Kenzo believed him.

Days passed. Then a week. The quiet settled in, comfortable and convincing. Kenzo stopped checking mirrors. Stopped touching his chest. Stopped wondering what had stayed behind.

That was when he noticed people around him changing instead.

A woman on the train stared at her hands like she didn’t recognize them. A man laughed too long at nothing. Small moments — easy to ignore — except Kenzo felt them now. Felt the tension. The cracks.

One night, as he walked home, he passed a bus stop he had never seen before.

Old. Rusted. Flickering light.

His chest tightened — not with fear, but recognition.

His phone buzzed.

A new message from an unknown number.

“You did well,” it read.

“You made it safe for the rest of us.”

Kenzo’s breath caught.

He looked up.

The bus stop sign creaked gently in the wind, turning just enough for him to read the faded letters beneath the grime:

NEXT ROUTE: IN SERVICE

And in the dark glass of the shelter, behind his reflection,

someone else was already standing there —

watching the road,

waiting for the bus to arrive.

For the first time in weeks, Kenzo felt normal.

No strange thoughts. No borrowed calm. No whispers brushing the edges of his mind. He laughed easily, slept deeply, and woke without that heavy awareness sitting in his chest.

He told himself it was over.

The message never came back. The reflections behaved. The city felt like a place he belonged to again. Even Tunde noticed the change. “You’re back,” he said one evening, smiling with relief.

Kenzo believed him.

Days passed. Then a week. The quiet settled in, comfortable and convincing. Kenzo stopped checking mirrors. Stopped touching his chest. Stopped wondering what had stayed behind.

That was when he noticed people around him changing instead.

A woman on the train stared at her hands like she didn’t recognize them. A man laughed too long at nothing. Small moments — easy to ignore — except Kenzo felt them now. Felt the tension. The cracks.

One night, as he walked home, he passed a bus stop he had never seen before.

Old. Rusted. Flickering light.

His chest tightened — not with fear, but recognition.

His phone buzzed.

A new message from an unknown number.

“You did well,” it read.

“You made it safe for the rest of us.”

Kenzo’s breath caught.

He looked up.

The bus stop sign creaked gently in the wind, turning just enough for him to read the faded letters beneath the grime:

NEXT ROUTE: IN SERVICE

And in the dark glass of the shelter, behind his reflection,

someone else was already standing there —

watching the road,

waiting for the bus to arrive.