The edge of the bed was cold beneath me—unchanged, like everything else in the room.
Above, the ceiling showed the same crack I noticed in my first year.
Thin. Dry. It hadn't changed.
Didn't spread. Didn't fade.
Still, I noticed it every morning.
It reminded me of something I couldn't quite close off.
The alarm buzzed next to me.
I turned it off.
Then sat in silence.
A few seconds passed. Maybe more.
Then I stood.
The floor felt cold.
Not surprising. Just there.
Like most things in this place.
I walked to the bathroom and pushed the door open.
Same white tiles.
Same pale light from the weak overhead bulb.
The mirror was slightly fogged at the edges—though there hadn't been steam in days.
The air carried the faint smell of old soap and something metallic that never really left.
The sink was small, stained around the drain.
The tap had a stiff left handle that always needed an extra push.
I turned it.
The water shot out suddenly—loud at first, then steadied.
Colder than expected.
I let it run for a few seconds, then leaned in and splashed my face.
When I looked up, I saw the same reflection.
Same eyes.
Same silence behind them.
I stepped out of the bathroom, drying my hands on the towel I left hanging from the door last night.
The room was quiet.
Still the same unmade bed. The same desk cluttered with notebooks and charger cables.
I walked to the chair in the corner, pulled my clothes from the backrest.
T-shirt. Pants. Jacket. Nothing pressed. Nothing folded. Just enough to get through the day.
I got dressed slowly. Out of habit, not urgency.
The air in the room felt heavier now, like it had taken in everything I didn't say out loud.
I grabbed my bag, then paused at the door.
Checked the key. Turned it in the lock.
The soft click felt louder than it should've.
The hallway outside smelled faintly of dust and old paint.
The lights flickered once as I walked.
Familiar sounds echoed behind closed doors—music, footsteps, quiet voices behind thick walls.
I passed Snow's room.
The door was half open, as usual.
He was sitting on the floor, tying his shoes.
A low hum came from his speaker—one of his strange playlists. No lyrics, just ambient noise.
He looked up, smiled.
"Finally awake?"
I kept walking and said,
"My body is."
He laughed, got up, and shut the door behind him.
We walked side by side through the hallway, neither of us in a hurry.
Snow kept humming. Not a song—just something to fill the space.
Outside, the sky was overcast.
No sun, just a dull gray stretching over the buildings.
The sidewalk was still damp from last night's rain.
Puddles collected in the cracks between the concrete, and the air smelled faintly of wet dust and exhaust.
We walked without talking.
Snow adjusted the strap of his bag and glanced up at the clouds.
"Feels like it's gonna rain again," he said.
I didn't answer.
He kept walking beside me anyway.
That was something I appreciated about him—he never filled silence just to kill it.
At the main gate of the university, students moved in clusters.
Some laughed too loudly.
Some scrolled through their phones, barely looking up.
Most walked like the day was already too long.
Snow tapped his ID on the scanner.
The machine beeped.
I followed.
The banner above the gate still read, "Your Path to Glory Begins Here."
I looked at it briefly, then kept walking.
Inside the building, the lights were too bright.
The walls too white.
The air too clean to feel real.
In the hallway leading to the dissection lab, Snow finally spoke again.
"Endocrinology today," he said. "You think he'll bring the fake lung again?"
I shrugged.
The classroom doors were open.
Chairs scraping, voices mixing, the low mechanical hum of fans running above our heads.
We sat near the back.
The instructor entered, loud and energetic.
He started talking before he reached the board—about lung inflation and rib spacing.
I only half-listened.
My eyes drifted to the table near the center.
White sheet.
Still shape beneath it.
A hand slightly visible, fingers curled inward like they were holding onto something that never made it out.
I stared at it longer than I should have.
Then I heard my name.
"Kaiser," the professor said. "You just gonna stand there, or are you taking the scalpel?"
I looked up, met his eyes.
"I'd rather not," I said.
He smirked.
"Afraid you'll hurt something?"
"I'm afraid I'll damage what can't be fixed."
He didn't reply.
The lecture went on.
Some students filmed the process, some laughed at the professor's jokes.
I just watched. Not the body—just the edge of the table, where the metal reflected the overhead light like a flat line.
When the lecture ended, most students left in groups.
Some stayed behind to ask questions, or to pretend they cared more than they did.
Snow stood, stretched his arms, and yawned.
"I need something terrible to eat," he said.
"Like… greasy cafeteria-level terrible."
I didn't respond.
He didn't wait for one.
We walked through the hallway together.
Same steps. Same chatter around us.
People complaining about grades, assignments, professors who talked too fast or too slow.
The cafeteria was already busy.
Noise built up like static—voices overlapping, trays clattering, chairs dragging across the floor.
We headed to our usual table, tucked near the window.
Not because it had a view—just because it was far from everyone else.
Snow talked while we ate.
About how the fake lung actually exploded last semester.
About how someone skipped class because they said their "soul needed air."
He told stories like they were part of a show I hadn't agreed to watch.
I listened, or at least looked like I did.
Most of my attention drifted—
to the motion of spoons against bowls,
to the subtle vibration of the AC unit overhead,
to a girl at another table tapping her fingers too rhythmically, like she was counting seconds she couldn't stand.
Then Snow said something, but I didn't catch it.
When I looked up, he waved his hand in front of my face.
"You're somewhere else again."
"Was I ever here?"
He smiled, leaned back.
"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were writing poetry in your head."
Before I could answer, a voice interrupted from nearby.
"Excuse me… is this seat taken?"
We both looked up.
A girl stood beside the table—mid-height, brown hair pulled back, holding a notebook.
She looked around like someone pretending to look for space, but her eyes had already chosen this table.
"All the others are full," she added.
Her voice was soft, measured.
Snow gestured to the empty chair with an easy grin.
"Looks like it's yours now."
She nodded and sat.
Placed her notebook gently in front of her.
Her fingers aligned the edges of the cover twice, then stopped.
No fidgeting. No signs of real nervousness.
Just… practiced ease.
She glanced between us, then said:
"Lana Keij. Exchange student. I'm doing a side project—kind of a visual journal about med life here."
Snow leaned forward, extended his hand.
"Snow. Med student. Addicted to caffeine and bad decisions. Pleasure."
She smiled slightly, then looked at me.
Snow motioned toward me with his thumb.
"And this is Kaiser. Doesn't talk much, but somehow knows everything."
I didn't speak.
Just nodded once.
She looked at me a second longer than she should have, then turned away like she didn't.
Snow leaned back in his chair, started unwrapping a stale granola bar like it was a ritual.
Lana didn't say much.
She sat with her hands resting lightly on the notebook, eyes drifting between the two of us.
She wasn't trying to start a conversation.
She was studying the space between us.
Snow eventually broke the silence.
"So… visual journal? That sounds like something my GPA would cry over."
She chuckled, polite.
"It's just observation. People. Routines. Behavior under stress."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Sounds more like psych than journaling."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Maybe it overlaps. Sometimes, watching people tells you more than asking them."
I didn't react.
But I felt her glance again—quick, precise.
Snow reached for his drink, then pointed at her with the straw.
"You should interview him."
He nodded toward me.
"Kaiser's the most stressful person I know. Quiet, but dense. Like a puzzle wrapped in a shutdown screen."
She smiled at that.
Then turned to me and said:
"I've actually heard of you."
I didn't respond.
She continued.
"Some students mentioned you. Said you used to be into tech. Real deep. Then… vanished."
Snow laughed.
"Yeah, he pulled a magician act. One day, boom—off the grid. Not even a forwarding email."
But I kept my eyes on her.
She wasn't fishing.
She was tracking.
Then she added:
"Someone said… you were the kind of person who buries things. Like files."
Snow looked between us, a half-smile frozen on his face.
The air around the table shifted—just a little.
Not enough for a stranger to notice.
But enough for someone like me.
That phrase… wasn't random.
I remembered writing it.
Years ago.
Encrypted. Hidden.
She shouldn't know it.
I looked at her.
"Some files aren't meant to resurface," I said.
Snow laughed awkwardly.
"Okay… and now it feels like we're in a thriller."
But she didn't smile.
Didn't break eye contact.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "what's buried doesn't stay that way."
She reached for her notebook. Closed it.
Her fingers rested on the cover for a beat longer than necessary.
Then she stood up.
"Thanks for the seat."
Snow blinked.
"That's it? Thought we were just getting started."
But I spoke, calm and even:
"Lana Keij… is that your real name?"
She paused.
Glanced at me, then said:
"Why ask?"
"Because some names reveal nothing."
She didn't answer.
Just looked at me once more,
then walked away.
Snow watched her leave, then turned toward me.
"What the hell just happened?"
I didn't reply.
Because even I didn't know how much of her was real—
and how much of what just happened… was meant to trigger something I'd buried.
The hallway felt quieter than usual.
Maybe it was the time of day.
Maybe it was something else.
I walked past the familiar doors—some closed, some slightly open.
Muted voices came from inside a few. Laughter. A video playing too loud.
Normal sounds.
But everything felt… offset.
Like the rhythm was off by half a second.
My room was exactly how I left it.
Unmade bed. Desk cluttered with notebooks and wires.
Lamp still on, casting light over one side of the chair.
I set my bag down, pulled the chair back, and sat.
The seat creaked under me—same as always.
I opened the laptop.
The screen flickered, slow to respond.
It was old. Reliable only because I knew where it failed.
Teams took a while to load.
No new notifications. No anatomy PDF from Dr. Sami either.
I leaned back.
Closed my eyes for a few seconds.
Breathed.
Then a sound.
Not loud.
Just a system notification.
I leaned in.
"File downloaded: WelcomeBackKaiser.exe"
My hand froze on the trackpad.
The name wasn't a coincidence.
No one was supposed to know that phrase.
No one except one person—
and he shouldn't exist anymore.
I didn't move.
Didn't touch the file.
Just stared at the screen.
Then instinct kicked in.
I disconnected the Wi-Fi.
Copied the file to an external drive.
Reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out the old machine.
The black laptop.
No accounts. No personal data.
Nothing but tools.
I powered it on.
Created a virtual environment.
Ran the file inside it.
It didn't react at first.
No splash screen.
No icon.
Just… stillness.
Then the console flickered.
Lines of code appeared—short, calculated, self-aware.
It was watching me analyze it.
Every step I took, the program responded—just enough to let me know it knew.
Then I found the trigger.
if vm_detected then begin stream
I clicked.
The video opened.
It was me—outside the dorm two days ago.
Same clothes. Same path. Filmed from above.
Then: cafeteria footage.
Me. Snow. Lana.
Then a voice.
Calm. Familiar. Too familiar.
"I knew you'd break it down. That's why I made the analysis the trigger.
You're still the same, Kaiser.
And that's exactly why I came back."
A second later, another message appeared on screen:
Execution triggered.
The screen glitched—then stabilized.
A new file loaded itself:
ItWasNeverBuried.exe
The voice returned.
Softer now.
"I sent it to see how you'd move… when the past came knocking"
I'm back, Kaiser.
But this time—
I'm the one watching."
The video ended.
I sat there.
The room felt smaller.
The air heavier.
I looked down at my hands.
They were still.
But my chest wasn't.
This wasn't fear.
It was recognition.
Whatever I thought I buried…
was never buried at all.