At first, I didn’t fully register what I was feeling. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but something far more unsettling—a crawling, almost imagined sensation that lingered across my back like a memory my body hadn’t finished processing. The kind of feeling that makes you pause before logic has time to catch up. I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was nothing more than sleep discomfort or a strange position during the night. But the unease didn’t fade. Instead, it sharpened, becoming more specific, as if my mind had already decided that something external had been there with me while I slept, even if I had no evidence yet to prove it.

That thought alone was enough to push me out of bed. I pulled back the sheets slowly, inspecting them with exaggerated care, scanning every fold and crease as if I might find an obvious answer waiting for me. The mattress edges, the pillow seams, even the floor beside the bed—everything looked normal, untouched, innocent. And yet, my body refused to accept that explanation. There are moments when intuition doesn’t feel like imagination, and that morning was one of them.