I didn't see her again that day.
Not in the halls, not in any class, not even in a passing window reflection though I looked. I scanned every crowd, every corner, half-hoping and half-dreading she'd appear again. But nothing. Just the usual buzz of teenage life I suddenly felt so distant from.
And yet, the memory of her stayed.
Like smoke in my lungs invisible but choking.
Her eyes haunted me the most.
Wide. Cold. Too familiar.
It was the kind of familiarity that makes your stomach twist. Like hearing a voice from a dream a voice you swore you forgot, but it comes back with just one word. That's what her eyes were. A word I hadn't remembered yet.
The rest of the school day dragged.
I couldn't focus in class. Every time the teacher called on me, I blinked at her like she was speaking a language I didn't know. My best friend, Mina, nudged me once and asked if I was okay. I nodded, but she didn't believe it. Neither did I.
"Seriously, what's wrong with you today?" she asked at lunch.
I hesitated. "Do you ever… feel like someone knows you better than you know yourself?"
She raised a brow. "Like a stalker?"
I laughed. Too hard. "Never mind."
I didn't tell her about the letter. Or the girl. Or the whispers. I couldn't. The words felt like they'd fall apart in the air.
When I got home, I did what I always did when I needed to breathe , I ran a hot bath, shut the door, and sank under until the world went quiet.
But even underwater, I felt watched.
I got out early, the silence in the house suddenly too loud. Mom and my sisters weren't home yet. I passed the hallway mirror and caught myself flinching. My own reflection looked wrong. Pale. Eyes too wide.
When I got to my room, I tossed my bag on the bed. Books spilled out. One landed open, and I froze.
There it was.
Another letter.
Folded cleanly. No envelope. Tucked between the pages of my biology textbook like it belonged there.
I hadn't seen it in school. I hadn't touched that book.
How did it get there?
My fingers felt stiff as I picked it up.
Same handwriting. Same pressure in my chest as I read.
|"You still don't remember.
That hurts.
But don't worry,I'll help you.
I'll make you remember what you buried."|
The edges of the page curled in my hand. I could feel my pulse in my throat. My breath came shorter, sharper.
Remember what I buried?
What did I bury?
I sat on my bed, back against the headboard, letter in hand.
The sky outside was dimming into that purple-gray kind of dusk that makes everything feel older. The kind of evening where secrets wake up.
I thought about telling Mom.
I almost did.
She came home not long after, called my name from the kitchen. I stood at my door for a while, holding the letter behind my back, trying to work up the courage to say:
"Someone's following me."
"Someone knows things they shouldn't."
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I was starting to believe that she might already know something, too.
And that scared me more than the letters.
I barely ate dinner. I barely spoke. When bedtime came, I didn't even pretend to sleep. I just lay there under the blanket, staring at the ceiling.
And then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Not outside the house.
Not in the hallway.
On the roof.
Soft. Careful. Measured.
Like whoever it was knew where to step, which spots creaked, which ones didn't. Like they'd been up there before. Like they'd watched this room a hundred times.
I held my breath.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence.
And then… a tap against the glass.
I didn't move.
Not until morning.
When I finally crawled out of bed, the sun was up. Weak and distant.
And on my window, pressed from the outside, was a note.
Soaked slightly from dew. Ink smudged.
I opened the window with trembling fingers and peeled the paper off the glass.
"Three days left.
That's all I'm giving you."
I stared out into the backyard.
The trees swayed gently. Birds chirped like nothing had happened. Like the world was still whole.
But I knew better.
Because now, it wasn't just about remembering.
It was a countdown.
And I had three days left…
to figure out why someone I couldn't remember
was willing to remind me
no matter what it cost.