The rotary phone rang once. Then again. Its shrill cry cracked against the silence of the motel room, where Mia sat hunched over a scatter of open journals, her hands cramping from too many hours of scribbling.
The third ring jolted her.
She stared at the phone, eyes wide. No one knew this number. She had burned the last contact sheet a week ago. This line was clean. Supposed to be.
She picked up slowly.
"Hello?" Her voice was steady, but her grip wasn't.
A beat of silence. Then static.
Then a voice, low and unfamiliar, filtered through the white noise.
"Is she still with you?"
Mia's heart stopped.
The line hissed again. The voice distorted, but male. Purposeful.
"I know where she goes. I know what you did. Let go."
Mia didn't speak. She changed her voice—lowered it, shifted accent.
"Wrong number," she said coldly, then hung up.
The click echoed.
She held the receiver mid-air, her breath uneven.
Then the phone rang again.
She didn't answer.
Not this time.
⸻
She unplugged the line. Let the cord dangle.
Then she sat, spine pressed to the wall, pulse racing in her throat. Her journals were still open across the bedspread. Notes on Sarah's schedule. Sketches of the bus route. Diagrams of the community center exits.
All of it felt too visible now.
She pulled the notebook closest to her into her lap and began tearing out pages.
Only the ones with contact routes. Personal phone proxies. Names.
By the time she stopped, there was a pile of torn paper at her feet.
She stared at it.
Didn't move.
⸻
Meanwhile, across town, Sarah stood in front of her bookshelf, pulling down a stack of forms and pamphlets. She was hunting for a tax form, trying to gather documents for a financial aid renewal.
A slip of color peeked from between two thick manila folders.
The mentorship flyer.
She froze.
It was the same cream cardstock, same serif font. But this time, her eyes caught something she hadn't registered before: the handwriting in the margin.
Faint. Tilted. Familiar.
She pulled it out.
Held it up to the light.
It matched the ink on the corner of the library pamphlet she'd found weeks ago.
Same loops. Same slant.
Her fingers trembled.
She dropped the rest of the folders on the floor.
Then slowly sat.
Surrounded by paper.
⸻
Back in the motel, Mia paced the floor, the silence now unbearable. She checked the blinds. Then the door latch. Then, finally, the flowerpot by the side alley.
Inside, a note.
Folded. Small.
She unfolded it slowly.
"Eyes near the fence line. Nothing tonight. Will shift watch rotation. —J"
Jenny.
Mia pressed the paper flat on the table, then exhaled. She sat, picked up her pen, and began writing in her alert log.
Voice intercepted. Threat classification: probable origin = paternal.
Protective action required: escalate countermeasures.
Hidden line status compromised. Relocation protocol pending.
She underlined the last line.
Then crossed it out.
Then wrote it again.
⸻
Sarah sat on the floor of her room, surrounded by papers. She laid the mentorship flyer beside the church pamphlet, then beside the RSVP card from the community center.
The handwriting. The messages.
It couldn't be a coincidence.
But who—?
Why—?
She reached into her drawer. Pulled out a receipt from a used bookstore—the one with the odd looped 's' in the signature line.
It matched.
Almost exactly.
She laid the receipt beside the others.
Then reached for her notebook.
She wrote one word at the top of a fresh page:
"Trace."
⸻
Mia tried to sleep, but her ears were still ringing from the static. She replayed the call over and over. Not just the words.
The cadence.
The pause before the threat.
The way the voice had almost said her name.
Almost.
Her real name.
But hadn't.
She rolled over, pulled her journal close. Flipped to a red-tabbed page.
Future Alert 004: Anchor loss—identity drift.
She circled it.
Then, beneath:
If he speaks your name, you lose the mirror.
She closed the book with trembling fingers.
⸻
Sarah stared at the papers around her. She reached for a pen.
Wrote a single word across the mentorship flyer.
"Why?"
She didn't know who she was asking.
Only that she needed an answer.
She rose, gathered the flyers, folded them carefully, and placed them in the box beneath her bed.
But one—just one—she kept out.
The church pamphlet.
She placed it on her nightstand.
⸻
In her motel room, Mia lit a candle. It was a rare indulgence, but tonight, the electric light felt too harsh.
The flame flickered.
She watched it until her breathing evened.
Then she opened a fresh journal.
On the first page:
"If silence becomes signal, prepare for resonance."
She stared at the sentence.
Then, slowly, wrote another line beneath:
"The mirror has seen her."
And beneath that:
"Hold the reflection steady."