The first time you wake to find words scrawled on your skin, you think you must be dreaming. Violet ink, elegant script curling across your inner forearm: "Hello? Is someone there?"

Your pulse quickens as you sit up, turning your arm this way and that in the dim morning light. The words don't smudge when you touch them. They're actually part of your skin somehow. Before you can process what you're seeing, more words appear, bright red this time: "Finally! Someone answer already!"

A third message begins forming in elegant gold script: "Patience, Margo. They might be sleeping."

Your breath catches in your throat. This can't be real. You rush to the bathroom mirror and flip on the light, staring at your arm in disbelief. The words seem to glow faintly under the harsh light. Another color joins the others—green ink this time: "What if it's not them? What if it's someone else?"

Your fingers hover over the words, trembling. As you watch, fresh purple writing appears: "Hello? Can you see us?"

Your skin tingles where the new words form, like a gentle touch. This is happening. Somehow, you're connected to these people through your skin, and they've been waiting for you.

The bathroom door creaks open and your roommate sticks their head in. "You okay in there? You've been staring at your arm for five minutes."

You quickly pull down your sleeve, heart pounding. What do you do?