I hesitate over a knit green cardigan with mother of pearl buttons and a mended hole on the cuff. It's mohair. In front of me on the plush carpet is my laptop, with two tabs open. Ebay, for one. A mailing label, for two. In the last year, I've been steadily decluttering my closet and selling my unworn clothing on eBay. The items that may have been just a season out of date during my teenage years are vintage now. If the threads in these pieces could convey the stories of each tumultuous event they lived through, would anyone believe them?

I fold the cardigan with practiced precision, and place it into the mailer. "Off you go," I murmur, before reaching for a felt tip and an empty greeting card. I pen thank you notes and slip them into each order. I don't know if anyone reads them, I've never had a repeat customer. But I like to believe that the recipient cracks a wistful smile when they read my words. In the last few months, I've dispatched little pieces of me to the very furthest ends of the globe. A sweater to Romania, a dress to Japan, fringe booties to Ghana.

The apartment is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the radiator and the rustle of packing tape. A breeze tickles the back of my neck. Reflexively, I glance to the window and figure that I must have left it slightly ajar, as I often do. But it's shut. Locked. This isn't the first time I've been subject to a chill of unknown origin in the last several weeks. In the night time I often stir awake and find that the air around me is tinged with a coolness that mimics a frosty morning in early fall. One where the grass outside has succumbed to a svelte layer of frost, which inevitably vanishes when the afternoon sun beats down– as though it were never there.

With four pristinely wrapped packages, I call for the elevator and ride it thirty floors down to the lobby. There's a bodega across the street with a Fedex drop-off depot in the back. I figure that while I'm out, I can pick up a few dinner essentials for dinner.

Outside, the street is unusually quiet. It's not silent, exactly—cars move, a bike glides past, the orange flicker of a crosswalk sign blinks steadily—but it feels like the volume's been turned down on the whole world. The usual chaos of Chicago is there, just... dulled.

I pause at the curb, packages tucked under my arm, and try to place the feeling. The wind brushes past with a sharp edge, colder than it should be for this time of year. Somewhere above, a flock of birds moves in a jerky, chaotic pattern—like footage is lagging, skipping frames. A cab speeds by, then brakes too late, tires screeching as it swerves and barely misses an open delivery van.

The driver doesn't yell. No one honks.

A woman on the sidewalk stands staring into the middle distance, as if she's forgotten where she's going. When I glance back a moment later, she's gone.

The bodega door jingles as I enter—shrill, metallic, too loud for such a small sound. The place is familiar, a tucked-away corner shop that smells of cumin and citrus and faintly of old floor cleaner. I come here often. It should feel normal.

But today, the air inside feels heavy, like it's pressing against my skin. The cashier doesn't look up from his phone. The overhead light in the far corner flickers once, then steadies.

I walk the narrow aisle, collecting dinner essentials—pasta, a jar of arrabbiata, one of those overpriced and tiny bags of pre-washed greens. When I reach for a carton of milk, the glass door is fogged from the inside. My reflection stares back in pieces—forehead, lips, the curve of my jaw—all fragmented by condensation and steel framing.

And then, behind me, past the freezer door, past the rows of snacks and wire racks, all the way outside: a figure.

Just a shape.

Standing across the street, visible through the front window.

Still.

Watching.

I whip around, breath catching. But when I look again, there's no one there. Just the glint of a passing car, the flutter of an awning in the wind.

At the counter, I pull out my wallet. The cashier finally glances up, and his brow knits.

"Back again?" he says.

My hand freezes halfway to the card reader. "Sorry?"

He shrugs, a little awkward now. "Didn't expect to see you twice today, that's all."

I stare at him. "I haven't been in today."

A beat of silence.

Then he chuckles under his breath, like maybe he misremembered, like maybe I'm messing with him. But I see it in his eyes—the flicker of confusion, the small frown.

I swipe my card. The machine chirps in approval.

Outside again, the city noise returns in waves—louder, almost distorted, as if the quiet from earlier was a held breath that's just been released.

…

Back upstairs, the city seems to drop away behind my door. The lock clicks closed, and the quiet rushes in, total and sudden. I set the groceries down and unwrap the veggies first—an odd instinct, like grounding myself in something ordinary. The apartment smells like cardamom from the candle I left burning. I should've blown it out.

The mail is stacked by the entryway. I flip through it absently: a coupon flyer, a gas bill, a padded envelope for a return I've been meaning to send. And then—something else.

A plain envelope. Handwritten.

My name, centered. Postage Forks, WA.

The paper is thick, worn, like it's been handled too many times. I stare at it, something cold dripping down my spine in slow increments. I don't recognize the writing. It's not quite tidy, but not sloppy either—just… off. Tilted, like the writer couldn't decide what kind of person they were.

I open it carefully. Inside is a letter, printed on school paper, the kind with a header in Comic Sans and a footnote from a history teacher. I scan it once and my stomach sinks.

'Dear Ms. Swan,

My name is Nathan Carrington. I'm a sophomore student at Forks High School, currently completing a genealogy report for Mr. Anders' American History class.

While researching gravestones in the Forks Cemetery, I came across one marked "Isabella Marie Swan," with a date of death listed as September 16, 2005. Given your shared name, I wondered if you might be a relative.

If you are related to the deceased, I'd love to ask a few questions for my report. Please feel free to reach out by email or mail using the contacts below.

Thank you for your time,

Nate C.'

I try shoving the letter back in the envelope, my hands shaky, a little sweaty. They miss the opening several times before finally settling on taking the papers and placing them into a kitchen drawer. Is this the cruelest of pranks? Had I not already been on edge for the past several days, I may have found humour in the message. Surely, no one's really purchased a headstone in my name and inscribed my likeness on it. I open my laptop again, figuring a cursory google search can connect me with the actual woman that Nathan has confused me with.

I type 'Isabella Marie Swan deceased Forks Washington' into the search bar. Press enter. I do not have to glean through the results for very long. The second link brings me to Washington Obits

And there it is.

A photograph of me from senior picture day, 2005. I'm smiling in the same bashful way I did as a girl, my lips closed and curled just a little at the edges. My face is round, filled out– not the way it is now, as I near thirty and have developed a line in between my brows from furrowing all too often. Underneath it, my presumed date of death: September 16th, 2005. A day I know all too well. The very same day Edward left me.

My laptop screen glows too bright in the dim light of the apartment. I slam it shut. For a moment, there's only the hush of the radiator and the thud of my heart. I press my palms to my eyes, but behind the lids, I still see the picture. My picture. My name. That date. I grab my phone with numb fingers and scroll to Dad. The call rings once. Twice. Four times.

"Hi, you've reached Charlie. Can't come to the phone right now..."

"Hey, Dad," I say, trying for evenness and failing. "I received something strange in the mail today. Can you give me a call when you get this?"

I hesitate. "Just—just call me."

I hang up. The silence that follows feels deliberate. I set the phone down and lean back in my chair.

Then—thwack.

Startled, I whip around to the window, heart lurching into my throat. I search for what's just shattered the quiet. A bird has flown into the glass with a sickening crack. I flinch, its beak crushed on impact, cartilage splaying like a ruptured syringe. For a second, it seems as though the creature tried punching through the pane to reach me. Blood spiders from its little head across the window, tracing fine, spindled lines like a scrawl in red ink. The bird– a starling, I think–doesn't fall right away, instead it convulses midair, wings spasming in frantic, disjointed beats—as if time has seized, trapping it in some godless pause. The motion is wrong, not frantic so much as looping—a shudder on repeat. Something a body shouldn't be able to do.

Then, with an almost reluctant release, it drops, vanishing thirty floors below, leaving only the twitching echo of movement behind.

…

Figuring I can't open my window enough to reach through and wipe the blood, I leave a message for my building's concierge, inquiring about when the building is next due for a hose down. For now, I decide that my efforts are better spent anchoring myself into a semblance of the reality I have known for the last twenty eight years. I wipe my damp palms on my thighs, then drift over to the bookshelf, dragging my finger across the spines. I settle on a sturdy velvet tome, and draw it out. A photo album from 2004 to 2006. Setting it on the glass coffee table like it's fragile, I crack the cover and begin to flip through the pages. They are slick, each photo placed neatly in a glossy pocket. I'm stiff when looking at photos from early 2005, taken on a digital camera.

Edwards fine auburn hair glinting in the light, a picture of us on a hike. My cheeks are red and flushed, sweat smatters my hair across my forehead. I remember that I didn't let Edward carry me while we made our way up the mountain. How stubborn I once was. I wanted to experience the hiking trail for myself, but I fell often, nearly tumbling through the forest loam, had I not been caught by strong, cool hands.

Even now, so many years later, looking over the photographs precipitates a deep ache just below the surface. I am hot with anxiety all through my chest, down my finger tips, in the very pit of my stomach. How I yearn to be held again on an evening like this. I recall the way he'd murmured into the hollow of my throat, promising to keep me close in this lifetime and wherever we ended up in the next, and the next, and the next.

Finally, I come across what I've been looking for. A photograph from Thanksgiving, 2005. Proof that I had lived past that September– not that I needed it. Further in the album I find photos from my high school graduation. A montage of when Angela and I celebrated the end of summer in Vancouver. Moving into my dorm at college.

That Thanksgiving had been particularly difficult. Grief was evident all throughout the picture; my hair greasy, hardly brushed. My posture rolled forward, my eyes casted dark shadows across the hollow of my cheeks. I had been sitting at the dinner table, a small, forced smile on my face. A hand on my shoulder. I think it must have been Charlie's. I flip forward a few pages, observing all the ways in which I tried to reinvent myself. A photo of me and Jacob in front of our bikes. One of me after painting my nails for the first time (I remember peeling the polish off the very next day), another of Charlie and Sue Clearwater sitting on the porch with a pie I had baked. On the very last page, a photo of the empty Cullen house. Pristine as though they still lived there. I hadn't noticed before, but the casement window that led to the tall pines in the upper lefthand corner was ajar, as though beckoning someone to come home.

I flip back through the pages towards the front of the book, pausing when I come across the Thanksgiving photo again. Something is… different. I scan through the picture with narrowed eyes, and draw a sharp breath when I see it.

Charlie's hand is no longer on my shoulder. Instead, I sit at the dinner table alone, a perfect tableau of isolated misery.

I slump back into the couch, tossing the album across the room. It hits the ground with a thud. I grab a cushion, and press it against my face. I scream. Sorrowful, wailing. There's an agony within that pulls its way to the surface with astonishing strength, trying desperately to crawl its way out of my throat and take refuge in the wide, open room.

I stop only when the unnaturally quick cadence of frantic footfall seems to make its way down the hallway and right up to my apartment door. I've disrupted a neighbor, I'm sure.

But when I edge closer to the peephole, preparing my sheepish apology, I see that the hallway is empty.

I back away from the door, my breath hitching, heart stammering in my chest. I don't know how long I stand there, waiting for footsteps, for a knock, for anything. But nothing comes.

Eventually, I turn away, crossing the room with unsteady steps. The apartment feels cavernous now, as though my scream has hollowed it out. The photo album lies open where it fell, its pages splayed like broken wings. I can't bring myself to close it.

Instead, I sit. On the floor. Knees drawn up, forehead resting on the edge of the couch. I won't cry again. I think I'm past crying. My mind races, tripping over itself—trying to find logic where none exists.

A soft click breaks the silence.

I lift my head.

The lamp by the window flickers, once. Then steadies.

I didn't turn it on.

Then—on the windowsill, just beside the smeared, rust-colored imprint where the bird struck the glass—something that wasn't there before:

A single pine needle.

Lying perfectly still.

I haven't been near a pine tree in years.