So I was going through some old notebooks and I found something I had written some time ago.
Though it seemed the deck had been shuffled, He had some inkling that the cards had been carefully stacked. Something gnawed at him as each piece of conversation, each phrase echoed in his mind. To anyone else, perhaps the whole thing might seem like static lost in the oblivion, but to him, something felt off. There was some sense of doubt that gnawed at him, it filtered into the back of his mind the way that light might filter through the blinds to fill a previously dark room. Each piece had been planted there to build up a carefully planned picture