He was knee-deep in a 3 a.m. rabbit hole, scrubbing through a neglected folder named _incoming on his NAS drive. Most of it was junk—old trailers, mislabeled documentaries, a Japanese game show from 2009. But one file stood out, its title crisp and odd among the debris:
Poppa. Leo’s late father used to call him that. Only his father.
The room’s front door—the same red door Leo had painted last spring—swung open on its own. No one entered. But the on-screen Leo flinched, then smiled sadly, as if greeting an old ghost.
Leo sat in the silence of his real living room, the Hokusai wave still on the wall, the red door still closed. But now he could swear he heard breathing. Not his own. Two sets. Gentle. Waiting. Poppas.House.S01E03.HDTV.x264-TORRENTGALAXY
Curiosity tugged. Leo clicked play.
A woman’s voice, warm and familiar, came from the empty doorway: “Time moves differently in your house, Poppa.”
And on the doormat, a new Polaroid: his parents, young, waving at the camera. Dated tomorrow. He was knee-deep in a 3 a
“You’re early tonight,” TV-Leo said.
You are not supposed to have episode 3 yet. Delete it.
The screen filled with static, then resolved into a wide shot of a modest living room. Beige couch. Worn oak coffee table. A framed print of Hokusai’s Great Wave on the wall. His living room. Exactly his. But one file stood out, its title crisp
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
But this Leo on-screen was older. Maybe five years. Hair grayer, eyes deeper set. He was watching something off-camera. Waiting.