I woke to silence.Not the peaceful kind. The heavy kind that presses against your ears until it starts to hum.
For a few seconds, I didn't know where I was. The curtains were half-drawn, morning light leaking through like it was afraid to come in. My mouth tasted like ash, my throat dry. Then I saw it, the typewriter on my desk. Still there. Waiting.
The paper was still in it.The words were still there.
The Night You Killed Me.
I stared at them for so long the letters seemed to shift. Like they were breathing. Like they wanted to be read again. I told myself maybe I'd written it in my sleep. Maybe exhaustion had finally taken something from me I couldn't afford to lose.
But the ribbon was dry.The keys were cold.
I hadn't touched it.
I tore the paper out and crumpled it, but it felt wrong in my hands, like I was crushing a living thing. I shoved it into the sink, struck a match, and watched it burn. The smoke curled upward, thick and stubborn. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw words forming in the gray: You can't erase me.
I blinked, and it was gone.Just smoke and the faint smell of old ink.
I opened every window. I needed air. I needed proof that the world still worked like it should. That sunlight could still reach me. But even with the breeze, the room didn't feel clean. It felt like something invisible was still sitting beside me, watching quietly.
Then my phone chimed.Once. Then again. Then again.
Five new emails.All from the same untraceable address.
Each subject line said the same thing:Draft ready for submission.
My stomach turned.
My hands trembled as I clicked the first one open. It was a document. My writing. My voice. My style. Every comma in the right place. But not my words. Not my story.
At the top of the page was a title I'd never seen before:"The Night She Spoke Back."
And at the bottom, the signature I thought belonged only to me:Written by A.K. & D.
I dropped the phone. It hit the floor hard, screen cracking across the middle like a scar. But the sound that followed wasn't the phone breaking. It was laughter. Soft. Familiar.Coming from the typewriter.
The keys pressed down once.Just once.
It spelled my name.