The city had begun to feel like background noise — its rhythm steady enough to numb her.
Grace woke before sunrise most days now, wrapped in the stillness of her new apartment. Her mornings were mechanical — coffee, shower, keys, door. Routine had become her armor.
Three weeks had passed since she returned. Long enough for people to stop whispering. Long enough for her to smile at the right moments and say she was "doing better."
But some nights, when the air felt too quiet, Grace could almost hear them.
Mark's laugh. Mia's voice. Like echoes that refused to die.
It happened first on a Thursday night.
She'd come home late, exhausted from a full day of back-to-back meetings. She tossed her purse on the counter, kicked off her heels, and let herself sink onto the couch. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Unknown Number: We need to talk.
Her chest tightened. The text wasn't signed. No name. No emoji. Just four words, heavy with memory.
She stared at it for a long time, heart pounding. She thought of deleting it, pretending she never saw it — but her thumb hovered instead.
Finally, she typed back: Who is this?
No reply.
She waited. A minute. Five. Ten. Then she tossed the phone aside and poured herself a glass of wine, trying to convince herself it was probably spam.
But the unease stayed.
Later, in bed, she dreamt of the old apartment. Of laughter and candlelight. Of Mia's perfume lingering in the air like guilt. She woke gasping, the sheets twisted around her legs, heart racing.
When she checked her phone again, there was another message.
Unknown Number: You deserve to know the truth.
Grace sat up, pulse hammering in her ears. The room suddenly felt too small, the shadows too deep.
She typed back again: Who are you? What truth?
Again, silence.
She didn't sleep after that. She just sat by the window, watching the first light of morning creep through the blinds.
By the time she reached work, she'd convinced herself it was nothing. Maybe a prank. Maybe a wrong number. But Ethan noticed the circles under her eyes the moment she walked in.
"You look like you didn't sleep," he said, leaning against her doorframe.
She shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."
He studied her. "Something happen?"
Grace hesitated. For a second, she almost told him. But the words wouldn't come. "Just a dream," she said instead.
He nodded slowly, unconvinced, then handed her a file. "Well, your dream's about to turn into a presentation in twenty minutes."
She managed a small smile. "Perfect timing."
The day passed in a blur of paperwork and half-heard conversations. Still, her mind kept drifting back to the message. You deserve to know the truth.
That evening, when she returned home, she checked again. Nothing new. The silence almost disappointed her.
Almost.
She set the phone down, drew herself a bath, and sank into the water. The heat soothed her muscles, the soft scent of lavender rising like fog. She closed her eyes, letting the quiet wrap around her.
Then — another buzz.
She jolted up, water sloshing over the sides.
Unknown Number: It wasn't an accident.
Her blood ran cold.
Grace stared at the message, her breath coming shallow.
Accident? What accident?
And then it hit her — Mia's "trip" to Italy a few months ago. The one she'd bragged about endlessly. The one that ended abruptly with a vague text about losing her passport and "needing space."
But what if that wasn't true?
Her heart pounded as she typed back again, hands trembling: Who is this? What do you mean?
The reply came instantly this time.
Unknown Number: You'll find out soon. Check your door.
Every sound in the apartment seemed to sharpen — the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the faucet. Slowly, she climbed out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and walked to the door.
For a moment, she froze, fingers trembling over the handle. Then she opened it.
On the floor, beneath the dim hallway light, was a small, unmarked envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Mark and Mia — together. Taken just days ago.
Her heart cracked open all over again.
The shadows had started to speak.
And they weren't finished yet.