SOON.

The word stares back at me from the window.

A promise. A threat.

Both.

I sit up slowly, trying not to wake Logan. My body is heavy and cold, like something drained all the warmth from the room while we slept. Our comforter lies crumpled at the foot of the bed now, half-hanging off the mattress, and the apartment is wrapped in a silence so absolute it rings in my ears.

I slide out of bed.

The floor is freezing beneath my feet. So much colder than it should be. Like the building itself has forgotten it's summer.

As the sun shines through the glass, the word fades as I step closer. I reach out—but stop just before my fingertips brush the pane.

What would happen if I touch it?

The question comes from out of nowhere and sticks in my head. I wipe the word away with the sleeve of my shirt, but the shape lingers in my mind like a stain. I step back, waiting, watching, daring it to return.

It doesn't.

The window stares back at me, a blank slate, as if it never happened. But I know better. I've learned not to trust clean surfaces.

"Maricel?" Behind me, Logan's voice is thick with exhaustion.

I turn. "Go back to sleep."

He rubs his eyes. "What time is it?"

"It's still early."

He sits up, squinting toward the uncovered window. "Is that—?"

"It was. It's gone now." I don't tell him what it said. I don't have to. He already knows.

When he rises to join me at the window, his hand slides into mine. "What are we going to do?" he asks quietly.

Gone is yesterday's bravado. Now, he sounds like he's given up.

I shake my head. "I don't know. I don't think there's a right answer."

He doesn't argue. That's the scariest part—how we've both stopped needing explanations.

We spend the day in silence, drifting through the apartment like ghosts. We barely eat. Barely speak. Barely look at each other.

The world outside keeps turning.

Children play in the courtyard. A neighbor knocks on the door and leaves a package. A breeze moves through the trees outside our window, but inside—inside it's all waiting.

Waiting.

In the late afternoon, I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the oven door we forgot to cover.

But it's not me.

Not entirely.

She's slower than I am. Blinks after I do. Always a breath behind.

I grab the kitchen towel and cover it fast, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Logan rushes in. "What happened?"

I can't speak. I just shake my head and point.

He understands.

We sleep in shifts that night. Or try to.

I lie awake long after midnight, staring at the ceiling. Every creak sounding like footsteps. Every soft hum of the refrigerator making my skin crawl.

Then—I hear it.

Not outside.

Not across the apartment.

But behind me.

Breathing.

Right at the back of my neck.

I whip around.

But no one's there.

Logan stirs, sensing it too. He opens his eyes and looks at me.

We don't speak.

He doesn't go back to sleep. He doesn't ask what I heard. He just takes my hand and holds it, like we're bracing for a tornado that hasn't hit yet—but we both know it's coming.

When the sun rises, it's too bright.

Too normal.

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders as we sit on the couch, drinking coffee that tastes like cardboard. The apartment is sunny and warm, but the air feels wrong. Like a memory.

"Let's go somewhere," Logan says suddenly. "Let's just get in the car and drive. It doesn't matter where."

I almost say yes.

But I know it'll follow.

"Whatever this is," I say, "it's not tied to the house. Or the mirrors. Or the attic. It's tied to me. My family."

Logan's expression twists, pain flickering in his eyes. "Then how do we untie it?"

I don't know.

"It's trying to take your place," he finally says.

I nod, my breath shaking. "I think it's getting closer."

We gather the basics—clothes, phones, cash. We leave the reflective surfaces covered. The lights off.

Before we get in the car, I walk the apartment one last time. Each room feels hollow now, like a movie set left behind after a scene ends. The shadows stretching wrong across the walls, a little too long, a little too bleak.

I stop at the bedroom door. Logan's already out at the car, loading the bags.

I don't have much time.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and for a moment, I just listen—to my breathing, and the distant hum of tires on the road outside. To the wind moaning between the buildings—high and thin, reminiscent of a whisper.

And then, I let myself remember.

Not the fire. Not the attic. Something further back.

One summer when I was nine or ten, I walked into the kitchen and caught Mom whispering to the side of the fridge. Not to the appliance, but to a faded photo of a little boy held in place by a magnet. Her lips barely moved, and she didn't know I was watching.

When she turned and saw me, she didn't jump. She just smiled—tight, tired—and said, "Whatever happens, don't ever answer if it speaks to you."

I didn't know what she meant. Not then.

I do now.

Down the hall, the front door creaks open and Logan calls my name.

I stand and walk out without looking back. I can feel her in the walls. In the covered mirrors. In the TV's black screen.

We drive.

The further we go, the tighter the knot in my chest grows. Logan tries to make conversation. He mentions the beach. "We could go somewhere with waves," he says. "You always say you love the ocean."

I nod, but my heart's not in it.

I stare out the window, watching the cities blur past in smudged streaks of streetlights and shadows. The thought of the ocean should make me feel lighter, but instead it settles heavy in my stomach, as if I've swallowed a stone. I used to love the ocean because it felt endless—wide enough to lose things in.

Or maybe to be lost myself.

Now, even that kind of escape feels dangerous. What if it follows me there? What if I carry it with me, tucked behind my ribs, clinging like sea salt to my skin?

Logan means well. He always has. But he doesn't see what I see. Doesn't feel the weight behind my eyes. The bottomless pit in my stomach. Not yet. But he will.

Eventually.

"I don't think the ocean's big enough to get away from this," I tell him.

We ride in silence. The longer we drive, the more something tugs at the back of my mind. Like a thread pulling taut. Like part of me is unraveling with every mile.

We stop at a rest area two hours out of town. I splash water on my face in the restroom. I don't look up. Not even once. Not at the mirror. Not at anything reflective.

But in the window of the car as I approach—

She's there.

My reflection.

Waiting for me.

Watching.

Smiling.

Like she never left.

Like she never will.

I get in the car and close the door. "Are you okay?" Logan asks.

I tell him the only truth I have left. "She's still here. I just saw her smiling in the glass. And I swear..."

Something unsettling slides beneath my skin, like my bones are shifting to fit hers.

"I swear I can feel her smile stretching across my face."

As Logan stares at me with widened eyes, I think about the word on the window.

Soon.

She didn't mean she was coming. She meant she was already here.

And she's not going away.

I turn to face the windshield, but I can still feel her watching. Not the reflection, not anymore—but from somewhere inside. Coiled behind my eyes. Curled under my tongue. Stretching her limbs like she's waking up from a long sleep.

Logan tentatively reaches for my hand. I let him take it, but I don't feel his warmth.

I feel hollow.

And smiling.

Smiling so wide, it hurts.

🪞

The End.

Approximate chapter word count: 1382
Approximate total word count: 20,315

Thank you so much to everyone who's read this story, and thank you to the Ambassadors for providing all those delicious prompts! I appreciate every one of you—readers, writers, and the many volunteers who keep Wattpad exciting. As always, best of luck to those participating in the OpenNovellaContest—don't forget to be proud of yourselves! 🧡