Static in the Blood

I slam the receiver down. The line stays dead.

But the studio door—it’s open. Just a crack.

Cold air rushes in. Not from outside. From inside the room.

The fog outside the window thickens, swirling like breath on glass.

Then the whisper. Not in the phone. In my ear. ‘Lila.’

I spin. No one’s there.

The notebook on the desk flips open. A page torn out. The words ‘Turn to seven’ scrawled in handwriting I haven’t seen in ten years.