The past is not dead. It is not even past."
— William Faulkner
---
Arrival
I don't remember who called me about the funeral.
I assume it was Aunt Lillian's neighbor, or maybe someone from the church, but the truth is, I picked up the phone, I heard my name, and everything after that is a smear of static and vowels.
Now I'm standing on the porch of my great-aunt's house, our family's house surrounded by pines, decay, and a smell I can't name but instinctively hate.
The front door is already open.
---
The house feels too accepting. Always like I never left.
The clocks still tick, though no one's wound them in years. Dust covers the furniture and the rough blankets, everything except the floors...which are suspiciously clean.
My old bedroom is exactly as I left it. There's a painting on the wall I don't remember though: a woman in funeral black with her back turned against the camera, but her head is turned to the side, staring into a fogged-out mirror. I think it's supposed to be a mourning portrait, but her posture is just off. Really strange. The longer I look at her, the more I'm convinced she's not looking into the mirror at all.
---
In the attic, I find a chest marked "Genealogy" in my great-aunt's tight cursive. Inside, a roll of yellowed butcher paper containing a family tree, handwritten, color-coded, and dotted with decades of names.
I start cataloging them on a fresh sheet, hoping to digitize it later. Some names I recognize; Lillian, Agnes, Frederick. Others I don't. Dozens of unfamiliar names. More names than there should be.
Some are scribbled out. Some have no birth dates. A few appear twice, in different branches.
But the strangest part is what's not there.
Me.
---
I flip through photo albums, searching for my photos.
There are group photos, old black-and-whites, but every one of them feels wrong. Blurry, warped. In one, a toddler stands apart from the family, facing the camera while everyone else looks away. His face is pale and round like mine, but the eyes are dull, lifeless, like the light had gone out behind them years ago. Awfully Depressing.
He wears a shirt two sizes too small, and his hands are clenched behind his back.
In the margin, someone has written:
> "The boy from before."
I close the album and tossed it aside, I don't have time for silly pranks.
---
That night, as I lay in bed, I try to remember what city I lived in before this.
I try to picture my apartment, my job, my friends, my phone, anything.
Nothing comes.
I check my phone's call log. No incoming call. No missed call. No outgoing call in months. Just a blinking "No SIM" in the corner, though I could swear it worked on the bus ride here.
I start writing things down, trying to anchor myself. But my own handwriting looks foreign, like someone else learned to write by copying mine.
.
The next morning, i fold the brittle sheet of butcher paper back into the chest. It shouldn't bother me this much, but it does.
No birth date. No scribbled nickname. No shorthand "me" in the margin. I'm not on the family tree.
I repeatedly assure myself there was an easy explanation, maybe an oversight, bad eyesight, or something. Lillian would know.
Her house is on the other end of the property, a one-story with yellow siding and flowerpots that haven't been touched since spring. She opens the door before I knock.
"Julian," she says softly.
---
Inside, everything smells like rosemary and old dust. Lillian offers coffee but brings tea. I tell her about the tree, and she squints at me for a long time.
"I don't see what the fuss is," she says, waving the question away. "You probably looked too fast. You're on there. Somewhere."
"But—"
"You always were a restless one, huh?...." she interrupts.
"There's no issue here."
I nod, slowly, then get up to leave.
But before I reach the door, she says, "Stay for dinner. Daniel would like that."
I hesitate, and she adds, "He's been having a rough time lately. You'd be a good distraction."
---
Dinner That Evening
Daniel, her son, is maybe nine. Small, pale, and too grumpy for his age. He stares at me throughout the meal but never says a word. She served spaghetti and garlic bread. Too much food for three people.
Lillian decides to fill the silence with memories.
> "Remember that summer you got stuck in the lake? I thought you were gonna drown."
But I don't remember a lake. I don't remember summers here.
Her memories don't quite match mine.
Midway through, I ask again.
"Lillian… why do you think I'm not on the family tree?"
Her hands go still. Her smile doesn't drop, but it tightens, like it's been pinned in place.
"Julian," she says quietly, "Don't get yourself spun up. You've always had a vivid imagination."
Daniel drops his plate. The crash is loud and sudden. The boy's hands tremble.
> "Sorry," he whispers, not looking at either of us. Then runs from the table, down the hall.
Lillian doesn't go after him. She just turns to me.
"Are you… still taking your meds?"
I am about to answer but something cold moves through my chest.
I try to picture a bottle. A label. White pills in a childproof cap.
Did I ever take them?
I can almost see it, half-full on a bedside table next to a digital clock. Or maybe a hospital tray. Maybe the pills were blue. Or red. Or chalky white.
What happened to make me stop? Did I decide I was better? Or did I just forget?
We don't speak for the rest of the meal.
---
The Funeral
I attend the funeral in borrowed clothes.
The service is sparse. Closed casket. A few distant cousins I don't recognize. I overhear two of them whispering near the back.
> "It's so sad, she never got over him."
"So young. It broke her."
I think they're talking about Lillian's husband, maybe a miscarriage she never spoke about.
Until I hear the next words.
> "He looked just like him, too. Spitting image."
I glance at them.
---
The Cemetery
Behind the church, I find an older section of the cemetery where the stones lean like drunks in the grass.
One is covered in ivy. I pull it back.
Initials match mine.
Date of birth: mine.
Date of death_
Two flower arrangements lie at its base. One fresh. One long dead.
---
Back in the house, I pass the hallway mirror and see movement just a few seconds later.
I stop. My reflection stops a moment later. I raise my left hand and it moves later. There must be something wrong with this mirror.
I walk closer to the mirror.
I could swear my reflection was a little further from me. Its shoulders hang lower. Its mouth doesn't move.
I raise my hand. It mimics me... too late.
I flip the mirror backward and walk away.
There was always something wrong with this house.
---
> That evening.
I go through the family tree again.
Still no sign of my name.
Until I blink.
It's there now.
But I don't feel relief.
It's not where it should be.
Not connected to any known branch.
Instead, a new section has appeared. A faded header in red ink.
> Beneath it, in pale script:
Julian Ezra Blackwell
Born February 11, 1995
Died Ma-- --, 20--
"Do not remember him twice."
I'm seated in the attic, staring at the tree.
I glanced at a small mirror lying on the dresser some distance from me. My face feels wrong in the reflection. Stretched.
I hear slow footsteps from the hallway downstairs.
My memory begins to distort as I close my eyes, glimpses of fractured images and dissonant sounds bleed through the dark.
And then I hear a soft and hollow voice, from somewhere below.
> "He's back."
I open my eyes.
A cold breeze blows past me and I take in my surroundings.
I'm standing on the porch of my great-aunt's house. My bag hangs loosely in my hand. The trees groan in the wind. The smell in the air is sweet and rotting.
The front door is already open.
This time, I realize something I didn't before:
> I don't remember who I am.
I reach into my pocket, pull out a crumpled scrap of paper.
It reads:
> "Julian Ezra Blackwell. February 11, 1995. Don't let them remember you."
.
I look up at the house.
And step inside.