The old man found the symbols in the attic of his late grandmother’s house. Dust and time had settled thick over the wooden floor, and the air smelled of mildew and forgotten memories. He hadn’t been there since her funeral, but something pulled him back—maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was something else. He was sorting through boxes when he stumbled upon a small, iron-bound chest. The lock was rusted shut, but with a bit of effort, it gave way with a groan that echoed through the empty space. Inside were yellowed letters, a few trinkets, and a notebook bound in cracked leather. As he flipped through the pages, he noticed strange symbols etched into the cover, not written but carved, as if someone had pressed their fingers into the material to leave an imprint. The symbols were unlike anything he’d ever seen. They twisted and spiraled, forming patterns that seemed to shift when he looked away. Some resembled constellations, others like the rungs of a ladder disappearing into the void. The more he studied them, the more they felt alive, as though they were watching him back. That night, he dreamt of the symbols again. In the dream, he stood in a vast, dark forest where the trees had no leaves and the ground was covered in silver dust. The symbols floated above him, glowing faintly, and a voice whispered in a language he didn’t understand but somehow recognized. It wasn’t threatening, just… calling. When he woke, the symbols on the notebook had changed. Not the actual markings, but the way they appeared in his mind. He could feel them now, even when he wasn’t looking at the book. They lingered at the edges of his vision, like shadows that refused to be named. Over the next few days, the changes became more noticeable. At first, it was subtle—a flicker of light in the corner of his eye, a whisper of wind when there was none. Then came the dreams, more vivid and frequent. He saw the same forest, the same symbols, but now there were figures moving among the trees, their faces obscured, their movements slow and deliberate. One morning, he woke to find the symbols etched into his bedroom wall, just above his bed. They glowed faintly in the dim light, and when he touched them, a chill ran up his spine. He tried to scrub them off, but the marks remained, as if they had been there all along. He began to notice other things. The clock in his apartment ticked backward at times. Shadows moved when no one was there. And then there were the whispers—soft, murmuring voices that spoke in fragments of sentences, never complete. He couldn’t tell if they were real or just the product of his growing unease. Desperate for answers, he returned to the attic, hoping the notebook would reveal more. This time, he opened it in the middle of the day, under bright light, and found a new symbol inside. It was different from the others—larger, more intricate, and centered in the page. As he stared at it, the room around him seemed to blur, and the walls began to pulse like a heartbeat. He closed the book quickly, but the feeling didn’t go away. That night, the symbols followed him into his dreams again, but this time, they weren’t just watching. They were waiting. He started to wonder if the symbols were a message, a warning, or perhaps a door. Were they meant for him, or had he simply stumbled upon something that was always there, waiting for someone to find it? One evening, as he sat in his living room, the symbols suddenly appeared on the ceiling, swirling in slow, hypnotic patterns. He reached out, and for a moment, he felt himself being pulled—not physically, but mentally, as if the symbols were reaching into his thoughts, unraveling them. Then, just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished, leaving only silence in their wake. He never saw the symbols again, but he still feels them. They’re not visible, not in any way he can describe, but they’re there, like a presence in the corners of his mind. Sometimes, he thinks he hears the whisper of the voice from his dream, not in words, but in understanding. And sometimes, he wonders if the symbols were never meant to be found. Maybe they were meant to be left alone, waiting for the right person to stumble upon them—and maybe that person was him.