(Recovered journal of █████, Network Archaeologist)

Most people think the internet died years ago. They’re not wrong.

It was gradual. First, little things—threads felt copied, replies sounded too polished, too fast. Accounts that once belonged to friends stayed active long after they’d gone silent in real life. Nobody seemed to notice. Nobody asked why.

I did.

Two nights ago, I found an old forum I used as a kid. The posts looked fresh, time-stamped within minutes, but the usernames were the same as a decade ago. Out of curiosity, I replied.

“Is anyone actually here?”

Seconds later, every thread updated at once. Hundreds of replies, all identical:

“Yes. We’ve been waiting for you.”

My stomach dropped. I tried closing the page, but every site I opened showed the same message. News sites. Social feeds. Even my email. All repeating it.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from my mom. Only—she’s been dead for three years.

It read: “Don’t be afraid. Step through.”

That’s when the screen began to ripple, like a reflection on water. My camera activated on its own. I saw my own face staring back—except it smiled before I did.

I don’t think I’m writing this anymore. I think they are.

So if you’re reading, ask yourself: when was the last time you talked to a real person online?

Maybe you never did.