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woke up to an unexpected call. The sharp, shrill ringing of my phone sliced through the quiet of my bedroom, dragging me from sleep like a hook in my ribs. My heart pounded before I even opened my eyes—who would be calling at this hour? The room was still dark, the faintest hint of dawn barely kissing the edges of my curtains. Blindly, I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over a half-empty glass of water in my haste. The cold liquid splashed against my wrist, but I barely registered it as I finally grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen.
Unknown Caller.
A prickle of unease ran down my spine. I hesitated for only a second before swiping to answer.
"Hello?" My voice was rough with sleep, barely louder than a whisper.
And then—I heard her.
"Jess? Hey, did I wake you?"
The breath left my lungs in a rush. That voice—soft, warm, alive—was unmistakable. Elizabeth.
My fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening. My pulse roared in my ears, so loud I could barely hear my own thoughts. This wasn't possible.
"Jess? Are you there?"
I should've answered. Should've said something. But all I could do was sit there, frozen, the phone pressed hard against my ear as if that alone could keep her from disappearing again.
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"Um? Hello? Jess, can you hear me?"
I swallowed hard, forcing words past the lump in my throat. "Yes, sorry. I'm just… really confused right now."
A dry chuckle escaped her. "Morning brain, huh? I get it."
I wasn't confused because of sleep. I was confused because this wasn't supposed to be happening.
My gaze darted to the clock on my nightstand. 6:03 AM. Thursday, September 4th.
The date hit me like a punch to the gut.
September 4th.
The day before she died.
No. No, no, no.
A cold sweat broke out across my skin. My mind raced—had it all been some horrible nightmare? Some twisted trick of my subconscious? But it felt so real. The police lights, the blood on the pavement, the way her name had been reduced to a headline: "Local Woman Found Dead in Apparent Homicide."
"Elizabeth?" I whispered her name like a prayer.
"Yeah? Are you alright? You seem stressed." Concern laced her words, and I could hear the frown in her voice. "Don't worry, I'm on my way now. I'll be there in ten."
Before I could protest—before I could demand answers, beg her to stay on the line—she hung up.
The dial tone buzzed in my ear, mocking me.
I sat there, still gripping the phone, my entire body trembling. Was I losing my mind?
Minutes crawled by. I counted them in the frantic beats of my heart. One. Two. Three.
At some point, I'd started pacing, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood floor. What the hell was happening? Had I somehow gone back in time? Was this some kind of twisted déjà vu?
And then—a knock at the door.
My breath hitched.
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"Hey, I'm here! Where are you?"
Her voice, bright and real, echoed through the apartment.
Every muscle in my body locked up. She was here. She was really here.
"Y-yeah, I—in here," I stammered, barely recognizing my own voice.
Footsteps. Then—there she was.
Elizabeth stood in the doorway of my bedroom, her dark hair slightly missed from the morning chill, her cheeks flushed pink. She looked exactly as I remembered—down to the chipped nail polish on her thumb and the faint scar above her eyebrow from a childhood bike accident.
She was alive.
For a long, terrifying moment, I just stared. Was this a dream? A hallucination?
And then—I couldn't stop myself. I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around her so tightly I half-expected her to dissolve into smoke. But she didn't. She was solid. Warm. Real.
"Jess?" Her voice was muffled against my shoulder. "You're kinda crushing me."
I didn't care. I squeezed harder, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "I can't let go."
She hesitated, then slowly brought her arms up to hug me back. "Okay," she murmured, confusion lacing the word. "You're freaking me out a little. What's going on?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
She gently pulled back, just enough to look at me, her brown eyes searching mine. "Are you okay?"
I shook my head.
"Okay," she said again, softer this time. "Let's sit down."
She guided me to the edge of the bed, her hand steady on my elbow as if she thought I might collapse. Maybe I would have.
We sat in silence for a long moment before I finally found my voice.
"Elizabeth… I need to tell you something. And it's going to sound insane."
She didn't laugh. Didn't roll her eyes. Just nodded, her expression serious. "Try me."
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So I did.
I told her everything.
The dream—or memory, or whatever it was. The police at my door. The way her body had been found in that alley. The months of grief, the funeral, the unanswered questions.
By the time I finished, my hands were shaking.
Elizabeth was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, she reached out and took my hand.
"Jess… if that's true, then why am I still here?"
I didn't have an answer.
But one thing was certain—I wasn't going to let her out of my sight. Not this time.
The funeral was a blur of muted colors and hushed voices—gray skies, black suits, white lilies that smelled faintly of rain-soaked earth. I stood there, numb, my hands curled into fists in my coat pockets, the cold seeping into my bones like an unwanted guest. When it was over, I didn't leave my house for two whole weeks. The days blend together, a slow, syrupy crawl of silence and restless sleep.
But then she was there.
She sat beside me on the couch, her knee brushing mine, her voice soft but impossibly clear in the quiet. "Do you think it was just a dream?" she asked, tilting her head just slightly, like she was trying to read the answer in my expression before I even spoke.
My throat felt tight. "I don't know what's a dream or not anymore," I admitted, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
Her hands found mine, warm and steady. "Well, you don't have to worry," she said, pulling me into a hug so tight I could feel her heartbeat against my ribs. "This is real. I'm real. I'm here—don't worry, I'm right here, and I'm not leaving." She held on like she was afraid I might dissolve if she let go, and for a second, I wondered if maybe I would.
We stayed home that day instead of going to school. She moved around my kitchen with an ease that felt foreign in the stillness of the house, filling the silence with the familiar sounds of clinking mugs and the gurgle of the coffee machine. She made my coffee just the way I liked it—two sugars, a splash of cream, stirred exactly three times before sliding it across the counter to me.
"You always get it perfect," I murmured, wrapping my hands around the warmth of the mug