The ink dried long ago. But something kept writing.

Pages turn by themselves at 3:33 AM. You hear a pencil scratching inside the walls. When you close your eyes — you see shapes that weren't there before. Faces you almost recognise. Hallways that lead to rooms you never built.

This is a trail of breadcrumbs left in a nightmare — or maybe the nightmare left them for you.

Every drawing here remembers being drawn. Every erased line still screams somewhere between the layers. You think you're looking at art. But the art has been looking at you for a long time.

Some things don't need an invitation. They just wait.

So if you hear breathing behind the canvas — don't run. It's just the ink. It's still wet. It's learning your shape.

And if you feel a cold hand on your shoulder when scrolling late at night…

…don't look up...

...don't look at him.

Someone is already inside.