The real world fades away into perfect, absolute silence. Except, it's not perfect silence. You can hear something else. A faint, rhythmic scratching sound that seems to be coming from directly inside your own head. You take the headphones off; the sound is gone, replaced by the normal noise of the cafe. You put them back on; the scratching is there, and it's getting louder.

The rhythm matches your heartbeat.

You switch tracks, but it’s still there. You try different headphones from your bag, nope, still there. The scratching sharpens, becomes deliberate. Pen on paper. Someone writing, fast and frantic, the sound of crossing out and starting over.

It's transcribing your thoughts. Every worry, every observation about the couple arguing two tables over, every mental note about your grocery list. But then you think something specific, your grandmother’s banana bread recipe, and the scratching stops mid-word.

Silence.

Then it resumes, more aggressive now, angry. It knows that you know.Heart hammering, you look down at your hands. There's a notebook open in front of you, pages covered in cramped handwriting. Your handwriting. Words you don't remember thinking, sentences that feel foreign but familiar, like hearing your voice played back on a recording.

You close the notebook. The scratching stops.