Chapter One – The Woman
The kettle screamed in the kitchen, a thin metallic shriek that sliced through the stillness of the apartment. She let it whistle a moment too long, the sound grinding in her skull, before moving to lift it off the burner.
She poured the water carefully, slowly, into a chipped mug. No milk, no sugar. Just black tea, bitter and hot, the way she liked it. The mug warmed her hands, but the heat never reached her chest.
The apartment was clean, though not in a comforting way. Everything was placed too precisely, as if she were afraid of leaving a trace of herself anywhere. The walls were bare, the curtains thin, the air stale with silence.
She liked it this way.
Or at least, she told herself she did.
By the window, she watched the street below. People hurrying, talking, laughing, phones pressed to their ears, children tugging at hands. She didn't envy them. Not exactly. But their noise grated, their easy belonging pressed against her like a bruise.
She didn't belong. She never had.
At eight sharp, she pulled on her coat, checked the locks twice, and stepped into the hallway. Her neighbor from 3B passed with a bright smile and a mumbled "Morning." She nodded, a flicker of a smile on her lips, but no words left her. They rarely did.
The silence had become her armor. People mistook it for shyness, or rudeness, but the truth was simpler: speaking felt dangerous. Words carried weight. Words revealed things. Words had once ruined her life.
The walk to the office was brisk, cold wind biting at her cheeks. The city was loud — buses hissing, horns snapping, shoes slapping pavement — but inside her head there was only the constant thrum of her thoughts, that ceaseless whisper: Don't draw attention. Don't let them see.
At work, she slipped behind her desk in the records office. Stacks of paper, endless files, the soft hum of fluorescent lights. It was the perfect job for someone like her. Quiet. Unnoticed. She typed, she sorted, she filed. She kept her head down.
"Morning, Claire," said her supervisor, breezing past.
She gave a tight smile, dipping her head, letting her hair fall like a curtain. Claire. That was her name, though she hadn't heard it spoken with warmth in years.
By lunch, she'd managed to avoid conversation, as usual. The cafeteria was too loud, so she ate alone in the stairwell, balancing her sandwich on her knees.
It should have been an ordinary day. Routine. Safe.
But when she returned to her desk in the late afternoon, something was wrong.
Her drawer — the top one, where she kept her pens and scraps of paper — was open. Just an inch, but enough. She never left it open. She never left anything open.
Her pulse skittered. She looked around the room. No one seemed to notice, no one cared. People chatted, staplers clicked, printers coughed.
Slowly, she pulled the drawer fully open. Inside, beneath the clutter of pens and paperclips, was a folded sheet of paper.
She froze.
It wasn't hers.
Her hands shook as she lifted it out. Plain white. Folded once. No markings on the outside.
For a long moment she just held it, her breath shallow, her stomach knotted. The air seemed to thicken around her.
Finally, with trembling fingers, she opened it.
One word. Written in black ink, jagged and hurried, slashed across the page.
"Remember".