The alarm didn't ring that morning.
Thomas had stopped setting it weeks ago, though he couldn't remember when or why.
He woke to the taste of dry air and silence that thick, heavy kind that feels like a sound itself. It clung to his chest as if daring him to breathe. He rolled to the other side of the bed, half expecting the sheets to be warm, half hoping they wouldn't be.
They were cold.Too cold.
"Emilia?"
His voice came out rough, uncertain, the way you call into a room you're afraid is empty.
No answer. Only the hum of the old refrigerator from the kitchen and the faint rhythm of rain against the windowpane.
He sat up slowly, his eyes adjusting to the gray light spilling through the blinds. The smell of her perfume still lingered lavender with something darker underneath, something smoky. She always wore too much of it. He used to tease her about that.
Now it just hurt.
Her side of the bed was untouched. The dent in her pillow was gone, smoothed out by time. Her robe still hung behind the door, her slippers tucked neatly beside the dresser. Her purse sat on the chair, her coat still on the hook. Everything looked… paused. Like she had stepped out for a moment and just hadn't stepped back in.
He reached for her phone on the nightstand.
Fully charged. No missed calls.
The wallpaper was a photo of the two of them her smile bright, his arm around her shoulders but for a second he could've sworn her eyes moved. Looked past him.
Thomas blinked hard. The image was still.
He set the phone down, his pulse racing. "You're fine," he whispered. "You're just tired."
But that didn't explain the coffee.
On the kitchen counter sat her favorite mug, still half full. The coffee had gone cold, but the lipstick stain on the rim looked fresh, bright against the white ceramic. He touched it with his thumb. The mark smeared slightly.
She couldn't have been gone long.
He checked the bathroom — dry towel, spotless mirror. The smell of soap hung faintly in the air. Everything was in its place. Everything except her.
Thomas's mind began to hum with questions, a low, electric panic building beneath his skin. He pulled open drawers, checked the closet, the balcony, even under the bed like a man afraid of what he might actually find.
Nothing.
Only the quiet.
Then he saw it — something lying beneath yesterday's newspaper on the counter.
A photograph.
At first he thought it was just another picture from their trip to the pier. But when he picked it up, his stomach turned.
It was the two of them, standing close, arms wrapped around each other. The sky behind them was the kind of orange that made her skin glow. She was smiling that real smile — the one he thought only he could draw out of her.
But his face…
His face was blurred. Not out of focus — smeared, like someone had dragged a wet finger across the ink while it was still fresh.
He stared at it for a long time, waiting for his mind to fix it, to make sense of what he was seeing. But the harder he looked, the worse it got. His features melted into nothing. Only Emilia remained clear.
He whispered her name again, softer this time. "Emilia, where are you?"
The knock on the door made him jump.
He froze. The photograph trembled in his hand.
When he opened the door, a woman stood there, rain clinging to her coat. Her hair was pulled back, her eyes calm but sharp.
"Thomas Hale?" she asked.
He nodded warily.
"I'm Detective Mira Vaughn. Your brother, Liam, called. Said you were worried about someone named Emilia?"
Thomas blinked. "Yes. She's— she's missing. I woke up and she was gone."
The detective studied him for a moment. "How long has she been missing?"
He hesitated. "Since last night. Maybe… maybe longer. I'm not sure."
May i come in, Thomas nodded..sure.
Mira stepped inside, scanning the apartment. It was neat, almost unnaturally so. Too neat for someone frantic about a missing person.
"Do you have a picture of her?" she asked.
Thomas handed her the photo.
She looked at it for a long moment, then back at him. "You took this recently?"
"Yes," he said quickly. "A few weeks ago."
She turned the photograph slightly toward the light. Her brows drew together. "Mr. Hale… it looks like the image is damaged."
He looked again. This time, Emilia's face had begun to fade too — the edges of her hair dissolving into the paper.
"That's not possible," he whispered. "It wasn't like that."
Mira's voice softened. "Thomas, how long have you known Emilia?"
"Three years."
"And where did you meet?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came. The memory was there — he could feel it — her laughter, the smell of sea salt, her hand in his. But when he tried to picture it, it dissolved like smoke.
"I… I don't remember," he finally said, voice cracking.
Mira's gaze lingered on him, patient but cautious. "It's all right. Sometimes stress can blur things. We'll figure it out."
Thomas nodded, but inside, panic was clawing at him.
He looked down at the fading photograph again, and for a second — just a second — he swore he heard her voice, soft and near his ear.
You promised you'd never forget me, Thomas.
His hand tightened around the picture. The paper felt damp — from the rain, maybe. Or his sweat. Or tears he didn't remember shedding.
He turned toward the empty apartment. The silence no longer felt peaceful. It felt watched.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the fear and confusion, another thought whispered through his mind — one he didn't want to believe but couldn't silence.
What if Emilia hadn't left?
What if she'd never been here at all?.