The Mark on the Wall

March 15, 2026

by Willy

1 min read

Story Premise 1 min read (186 words)

"As a boy, I lived in a tall brick building in a noisy city. At night, after everyone was in bed, I would watch pale, shimmering shapes drift from the hallway into the kitchen. They moved like smoke through the closed door. I was young and thought everyone saw such things. They never frightened me; […]"

As a boy, I lived in a tall brick building in a noisy city. At night, after everyone was in bed, I would watch pale, shimmering shapes drift from the hallway into the kitchen. They moved like smoke through the closed door. I was young and thought everyone saw such things. They never frightened me; they were just a part of my world.

Other small mysteries began to surface as I grew more observant. My father had a set of metal tools on his workbench. There was one small screwdriver with a blue handle. When I held it, the metal tip would grow warm in my palm. The other screwdrivers stayed cool to the touch. Only this one blue-handled tool held this gentle heat.

I asked my father about it. He said an old friend from a distant place had given it to him years ago.

Another time, I was lying on the living room sofa. A sudden, quiet thought entered my mind, telling me to look at a certain spot on the wall. There, I noticed a small, faint line I had never seen before.

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