Bella's POV
I've stopped trusting the silence.
Not because it's loud—but because it isn't. Because it wraps itself all around the bones of the day too neatly. Because it lingers in the corners of rooms where it never used to. And lately, it's started pressing itself against my back like a hand I can't quite turn to see.
This morning it followed me out the door and trailed me into the subway. It curled around the metal rail of the train car, settled between my shoulders like static. Even now, at my desk beneath the flicker of office fluorescents, I feel it—watching me from somewhere just outside the edges of reason.
Today I'm working on a story surrounding legacy. A startup in San Francisco is pioneering the way in digital remembrance, it seems. The company is selling headstones with wi-fi capabilities, allowing loved ones to send updated videos and photographs to a digital placard in real time. I wonder what my grandmother would think if she were privy to technology's eerie advancements.
More than that, however, I wonder if traditional methods of honouring the deceased will ever imbue as much sincerity as a series of moving pictures on a screen purposefully fitted into a marble slab. Maybe. I think back to each time my mother drove past a cemetery in my childhood, and I held my breath as we passed. For a brief moment, I wanted to feel at odds with many people interred before me.
Only briefly.
As I skim through a national database of obituaries, searching for any that sound especially profound, I find my fingers twitching– no, aching to seek out my own. Just once more.
I shouldn't type it.
I don't mean to type it.
But there it is, in the search bar like it had been waiting all morning:
Swan, Isabella Marie.
And the result, still sitting there in cached shadow, with its date—September 16th, 2006.
I click the 'back' button, as I already had perhaps a dozen times in the last few hours. My cursor turns into a steady rolling ring, my computer warms as it tries to refresh the last page.
Someone taps my shoulder, and I startle, ripping my hands from the keyboard like it burns and placing them on my thighs. I draw a deep breath.
"Yes?"
It's Conrad, a copy editor. He's in khaki chinos today, like he is every day. He wears one of the only four checkered button downs I've ever seen in his rotation. Lanyard ID clipped to his hip with a retractable line. The rest of us wear it around our necks.
I don't look right at him, I'm all too focused on my screen, watching the details of my obituary flicker in and out. My computer whirs as it tries to navigate again to the last page.
"You shouldn't be here," he says.
I snap my head up to meet his gaze, "what?"
"You shouldn't be here! Cass ordered a sushi tray. It's in the kitchen. If you don't go now, Elena's going to take all the shrimp tempura rolls."
I stand, legs stiff from tension, and follow Conrad down the corridor toward the kitchen. The lights in the hallway flicker slightly as we pass beneath them, the hum of fluorescents buzzing like an insect too close to the ear. I shake it off. Static. Just static.
The kitchen is bright and overly sterile, its white cabinets and brushed steel surfaces giving off an almost hospital-like chill. The sushi tray dominates the center table—neat rows of rolls already dismantled by greedy fingers. Cass stands in the corner by the fridge, gesturing animatedly with chopsticks in hand while Elena hovers near the shrimp tempura section like a hawk.
Conrad peels off toward the drinks cooler, leaving me to stand awkwardly by the table.
"Bella," Cass chirps, not looking up. "You missed the first wave, but I stashed you a California roll."
"Thanks," I murmur, though I don't remember telling her that California is my favorite.
I reach for the plate she indicated, lifting the plastic lid. Inside, the rolls are perfectly aligned—but there's something off about the rice. Too gray. The avocado is too green, almost artificial in its brightness, like it had been colored in after the fact.
I pick one up anyway, biting into it as casually as I can.
It tastes…wrong. Not expired. Not spoiled. Just—off, like someone had followed a recipe in a dream and made one imperceptible change.
Cass is still talking, I realize belatedly. "Oh! We thought about you this morning, actually. When we passed St. Jude's cemetery on the way in."
I freeze. "Why?"
She shrugs. "No reason. Just felt like we hadn't seen you in a while." Her tone doesn't match her words. There's no concern in it. No warmth. Just the hollow echo of something rehearsed.
I place the rest of the roll back on the plate.
On the fridge behind her, a sushi menu had been pinned beneath a novelty magnet shaped like a brain in a jar. I glance at it idly—and then again, closer.
Saturday, September 16, 2006.
I stare at the date. Rub my eyes. Look again.
Still 2006.
I blink, hard. Cass followed my gaze, then frowned. "Oh. Weird. That's not right."
She peels it off the fridge, looks at the date, and laughs—too loud. "Must've grabbed an old flyer from one of the prop boxes. That's so funny."
It wasn't funny. But I laughed, too. Because what else was there to do?
…
I need to take an extended lunch, I decide. A moment of fresh, green air and the chance to occupy a third space should set me right.
The café I choose is crowded, but not loud. That midday lull where no one talks, just scrolls their phones or sips quietly, headphones in. A low hum of espresso machines and indie acoustic music softens the atmosphere, makes it feel safe. Normal.
I need normal.
I order a black coffee and stand at the pickup bar, watching the barista slide drinks across the counter with practiced indifference. My name is scribbled too neatly on the side of my cup when it comes—block letters, all capitalized. I hadn't given my name.
I turn, scanning for a seat. Every table was taken. Bodies hunched over laptops, jackets draped on chairs to save space. I sigh, heading toward the window bar that overlooks the street.
As I walk, I see her.
At first, it doesn't register. Just a figure standing across the street, beyond the café's wide window. Pale coat. Too-stiff posture. Head slightly tilted.
But then I really look.
Her movements are wrong. Too slow. Her limbs moved like they were on strings—no, wires—jerky, not quite human. Her neck turns just a second too late, like someone has to prompt it. And her eyes…
Her eyes lock onto mine through the glass.
She doesn't blink.
Doesn't breathe.
Doesn't look away.
I stop mid-step. A customer brushes past me, muttering something under their breath, but I don't hear it. I am rooted. Paralyzed.
The puppet woman lifts one hand. A wave? No—an attempt at one. The motion stuttered halfway, elbow jutting at an impossible angle before dropping limp again to her side.
She smiled.
Her lips didn't part. The skin around her mouth just stretched, like it had been instructed to mimic the idea of a smile. No teeth. No warmth. Just a grotesque suggestion of friendliness.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
The woman's lips move—but there's no sound. I'm too far away. Or maybe... there's nothing to hear. The mouth opens too wide, like her jaw unhinges for a moment too long, then clicks shut again.
Inside the cafe, no one seems to notice the woman at all.
Suddenly, she twitches again—her body slamming forward like a frame skip. Her face pressed against the glass. Not violently. Just... there. Smoothly. One moment distant. The next, inches away, staring through me.
She jerks forward again.
And she's inside.
Standing just past the doorway.
No sound. No entry chime. No one else notices her arrival.
She stands too close now—just feet away. My heart seizes. I step back, nearly spilling my coffee.
Her head tilts farther, almost horizontal now, like her neck was built to bend wrong.
"You left," she whispers.
The voice comes from her mouth, but it doesn't sound like it should. It's doubled—like two tapes layered just slightly out of sync.
"I'm sorry?" I say, backing into a stool.
"You left," she repeats. "And now it's wrong."
Wrong. The word hangs in the air like a foul smell.
She blinks. The sound of it is wet.
I turn—ready to bolt, to scream, to do something—and knock into a man with a laptop. His drink sloshes onto his keyboard and he swears. I turn back to her.
She's gone.
Just… gone. No one seems to have seen her. No one is reacting.
"Did you…?" I ask the barista, but she's already calling the next name. No reaction. No recognition.
I stagger out into the street, coffee forgotten on the floor, the cup beginning to leak where it had fallen.
Outside, across the street where the woman had been standing, the sidewalk is empty.
But the streetlamp above flickers once. Twice. Then buzzes out completely.
…
In the evening I draw myself a bubble bath. Light candles for it, pour a glass of wine, prepare a tray of vegetables and dip to lay on the edge of the tub. These days, commiting to acts of self care feels almost sacrilegious, the gesture of tending to my aching body feels underwhelming… wrong, almost.
While lathering soap across my chest in the hot water, I idly wonder if I should have myself committed to a psychiatric ward. An inpatient centre where all my meals are scheduled, my bedtime certain, wardrobe unfussed because I look like everyone else. I lean my head back on the porcelain tile and sigh contentedly at the thought of having all my decisions made for me.
I've started to believe that I am perhaps hallucinating.
My job is not particularly stressful, my connections to my family or friends are not particularly tumultuous. And still… Still, there's something going on within me that's causing my brain to short circuit and fill the gaps of reason with wild delusions.
I close my eyes and count to ten.
When I open them, the candle nearest the faucet has gone out. The others flicker madly, as if caught in a sudden wind—except the windows are sealed shut, the apartment still as a tomb.
I reach forward and relight it, but the match breaks in my hand.
I try another. It sparks, then dies before reaching the wick.
The flame in the center of the room dims to a faint sputter. One by one, the candles give up the ghost.
The bathroom grows darker. Not pitch black—just that strange kind of dim where you can still see everything, but the shadows are heavier, warped. My wineglass has shifted closer to the tub than I remember placing it. The vegetables on the tray have begun to wilt.
I blink hard, shake my head. Maybe I do need to be committed.
The faucet begins to drip. I turn toward it—just a small thing. Nothing dramatic. But the sound grows louder, deeper. The water doesn't hit the surface like water—it thuds, like something dense. Wrong.
I reach to twist the handle tighter, but when I look down—
The water is still. Perfectly, unnaturally still. No ripples. No steam.
Just a flat mirror, reflecting the overhead light.
I slap my hand down onto the surface of the bubbles, intending to make a splash, but peel back quickly when met with a red, stinging sensation. I can't break the surface tension, the water around me feels hard– cold and unmoving like granite.
For a moment, I can't breath.
I have to get out.
I stand up so fast the tray flips, carrots and hummus scattering into the tub. I slip, grab the edge of the counter. My breath comes in sharp gasps, the room suddenly sweltering.
When I look again, the mirror surface is gone—disturbed now by my movements. Just bathwater.
Just water.
I leave the bathroom dripping, forget the towel, forget the wine, forget everything except the frantic certainty blooming in my chest:
I'm not imagining this.
…
In the wrought iron chair on my balcony, I sit with my shoulders curled inward, wearing nothing but my bathrobe. It's frosty outside, but my body is hot and pulsating with adrenaline.
I'm chewing around the cuticles of one hand, an old appeasement behaviour I picked up in childhood and never dropped. With the other, I have WebMD open on my phone.
'Sudden Hallucinations' yields many results, but it feels all too broad for my specific situation.
'Hallucinations at 28' shows results that suggest I may have Schizophrenia– but even that doesn't feel entirely right.
"I found my own obituary" brings me down a niche rabbit hole of conspiracy theorists and alien apologists that I have little interest in investigating.
I sigh, placing my phone face down on the iron table, and lean over the balcony, observing all the lights that flicker and flutter in the night. Across from my apartment is another high rise, and through the window of a unit with its lights on and curtains drawn back, I see a woman bouncing her newborn while rubbing its back in small circles.
I wonder for a moment what life would have been like had I chosen motherhood.
My eyes trace all the lights through open windows down, down, down– and then as I reach the street, I see it.
No, I feel it.
It starts with the static feeling again.
That buzzing hum beneath my skin, like the world is vibrating out of tune. Like the air just beyond me is full—too dense. Too watched.
Someone was there.
I look down, quick.
Nothing. Just wind and concrete and exhaust. A man across the street lights a cigarette. A woman in a navy coat is dragged by her large breed dog by a corner bakery. My eyes dart up to the rooftop across from mine.
Still nothing.
But the feeling doesn't go away. It presses in harder.
I go inside fast. Locked both the balcony and my apartment doors. Bolted the second one, too.
Then I watch.
Lights off, blinds parted just an inch. I stood there for nearly an hour, waiting for nothing to become something.
It does.
A shadow moves across the alley.
Slow. Careful. It stopped behind a dumpster—just long enough for the shape of it to register. A man. Tall. Still.
Watching up.
Watching me.
My breath hitches. I drop the blinds.
This isn't new. The sensation of being watched had followed me for weeks now, maybe longer. But this is the first time it has shape. Weight. Evidence.
I am being stalked.
I should called the police. I should call anyone. But my body is already moving. I draw my robe tighter. Grab a flashlight and pepper spray. I tell myself I'm not walking out there because I'm brave.
I'm walking out there because I need it to end.
The alley is dark and wet. My breath fogs in the air as I step into it, one hand tight around the spray, thumb poised. The other grips the flashlight like a weapon.
"Hey!" I call out. My voice sounds stronger than I feel. "I know someone's been watching me. Come out. Now."
No answer.
I take another step, slippers echoing on the pavement. My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear anything else.
Then—
A whisper of movement.
He steps out.
And the world stops.
He looks like something pulled out of a nightmare. Or a grave.
Hair tangled. Eyes hollowed out. Clothes hanging off him like he hasn't worn anything new in years. He's somehow thinner. Paler. But—
"Edward," I say.
Not a question.
A statement.
Because my body knows before my brain does.
Because somewhere deep inside, it has always been him.