Ashley's POV:
Five words at the top of the card.
I missed you, Sunbeam.
Her heart tripped over itself. Nobody called her that anymore. The name belonged to another version of her, the one she'd locked in the attic of her mind three years ago and promised never to visit again.
Then, beneath it—smaller, darker, carved into the page with the pressure of a memory that refused to die:
I remember what you did.
The room tilted. She could hear her pulse everywhere—in her ears, her throat, even her fingertips. The handwriting was too clean to be casual, the kind that came from a steady hand and too much patience.
She read the lines again. They didn't change.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Sure. Paper ghosts. Love that for me."
Her laugh came out thin, a sound that didn't belong in her mouth. She folded the card once, twice, too quickly, as if creasing it might bend the truth hiding inside. Then she placed it in her ceramic candle dish and struck a match.
The paper caught instantly. Flames crawled along the edges, eating the ink until it bled into black smoke. For a second, the words twisted and almost looked alive. Then they vanished, curling into ash.
When it was over, Ashley sat there, hand trembling around the matchstick's tiny skeleton. "Good riddance," she muttered, blowing out the last ember.
Outside, the storm was losing steam. Rain softened to a drizzle that clicked against the window like fingernails on glass. The city lights blurred through the drops, refracted into ribbons of silver and gold.
She crawled into bed and pulled the blanket to her chin. The pillow smelled like laundry soap and a life that was supposed to be safe. She told herself it was over—that the letter was nothing but a mistake, a joke, a ghost she'd already burned.
But the scent of smoke clung to the room. It wasn't strong, just a faint metallic whisper that refused to leave.
She shut her eyes. Sleep came in fits—shallow, twitchy, half-awake. Each time she drifted off, she saw the handwriting again, crisp and merciless against the cream paper.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Morning sunlight shattered through the curtains. It fell across her nightstand, painting the candle dish in gold. Only a thin crust of ash remained. The note was gone, proof turned to dust.
Ashley sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her chest felt hollow but lighter, like the tension from the night before had been a dream she could almost laugh about.
She opened the window; cool air rushed in, carrying the smell of wet pavement. Somewhere below, a car horn blared, a kid shouted, a dog barked—life moving on.
Downstairs, the kitchen was its usual chaos.
Daniel sat at the counter scrolling through his phone, earbuds in, bobbing his head to something with too much bass. Her mom hummed along to the radio as she flipped pancakes, and her dad read the newspaper like he was in a commercial for peaceful domesticity.
"Morning," Ashley croaked.
Daniel looked up, grinning. "Morning, ghost girl. Did the storm steal your soul or what?"
"Just my REM cycle," she said, stealing a pancake straight off the griddle.
"Forks exist, you know."
"Efficiency exists, you know."
Her dad lowered the paper, one brow raised. "You two arguing before caffeine. It's going to be one of those days."
Her mom chuckled. "At least they're both home. I'll take the noise."
For ten whole minutes, life felt normal again. The sound of butter sizzling, Daniel's bad jokes, her mom's easy laughter—it was everything she'd missed while pretending to be fine somewhere else.
__________________________________________________________________
By the time she made it to campus that afternoon, she'd almost convinced herself last night had been a nightmare spun out of storm light and exhaustion. The sky had the washed-out blue of early autumn; the sidewalks glistened from leftover rain. She tucked her hoodie closer around herself and joined the stream of students heading toward the lecture halls.
The professor droned on about deadlines and project rubrics. Her pen moved automatically, filling her notebook with half-legible words. Her brain, though, stayed far away—on candle smoke, on cream paper, on the faint mark still burned into her nightstand.
By the last fifteen minutes of class, she was tired enough to believe she'd overreacted. The letter hadn't been real. Or if it was, it was meaningless.
When the clock hit four, the room erupted in the usual end-of-day rustle—zippers, backpacks, chatter. She joined the flow of students pouring outside. The air smelled of coffee, asphalt, and that strange post-storm electricity that clings to everything.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Once. She ignored it, stepping off the curb.
Then again—longer, insistent.
She pulled it out, thumb unlocking the screen.
Unknown Number:You shouldn't have burned it.
The message glared up at her in the light.
The noise around her thinned until it was nothing but distant static. Her heart skipped, then stumbled into a sprint. She read it again. It didn't change.
A chill rolled through her even though the sun was still out. Someone laughed nearby, a sound too bright against the sudden quiet in her head.
The phone felt heavy in her hand.
She lowered it slowly, eyes flicking to the sky. Clouds were gathering again—thin gray ribbons weaving back over the sun.
It looked like the storm had never really left.
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Author's Note —
Ah, our girl thought fire was a solution.
Classic Sunbeam move 🔥
One storm, one dramatic midnight bonfire, and boom—she's back to breakfast like nothing happened. Sweetheart, if you're reading this, denial looks good on you but it's not sustainable.
The thing about ashes? They keep memories better than paper ever could.
Next chapter: a voice that doesn't belong to the present, a detail in that message that shouldn't be possible, and the creeping realization that home might not be the safe place she thinks it is.
Hydrate, check your notifications twice, and for the love of all that's holy—don't light anything tonight. ☕📱🌩️
— Vaanni 🖤