Have you ever had a place that feels like it remembers more about you than you remember about yourself?
That was the bench by the lake for me. Old, splintered wood, initials carved so deep they looked like wounds, shadows from the willow trees stretching over it like fingers. Jake and I used to sit there when we were kids, skipping class, making promises we never meant to keep. That bench knew our laughter, our secrets, and the silence we never dared explain.
I wasn't supposed to be there that night. But something dragged me, like an invisible hand on my collar, pulling me to a place I hadn't set foot in since his funeral.
And then I heard it.
"You always did hog this bench."
I froze.
The voice. His voice.
I turned slowly, and my heart nearly ripped out of my chest.
Jake was standing there.
Same ugly brown leather jacket, same half-smile like he'd just stolen something, same sharp eyes that always made you feel like he knew more than you did. He looked exactly the same as the last time I saw him—except that last time, he was lying in a coffin.
"Jake?" The name caught in my throat. I said it like a question, like maybe if I said it wrong, he'd vanish.
He raised his brows. "What? No hug?"
I stumbled back, nearly tripping over my own feet. "You're dead."
"Am I?" He smirked, hands in his jacket pockets. "News to me."
"No, no, no—this isn't possible. I carried your coffin, Jake. I watched them lower you into the ground."
He tilted his head, still grinning, but there was something cold in his eyes. "And you believe everything you see?"
I shook my head violently. "This is a breakdown. I've been working too much, not sleeping. You're—" I cut myself off. "You're not here."
"Funny," he said, stepping closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. "Because you're the one who came here. Not me."
My breath stuttered. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't listen.
"You're not real," I whispered.
"Are you sure about that?"
Silence pressed down on us like fog. I could hear the water lapping at the lake's edge, the faint hum of traffic from the highway, and my own heartbeat pounding like a drum.
Finally, I forced words out. "Why? Why now?"
He glanced at the bench, then back at me. "Because you never asked."
"Asked what?"
"What really happened that night?"
I felt sick. I knew what he meant. The night of the crash. The night Jake's car went off Route 7 and plummeted into the gorge. They told us he fell asleep at the wheel. That was it. Case closed.
"I didn't ask," I snapped, "because there was nothing to ask! They told us everything. You died instantly."
Jake sat down on the bench like it was the most normal thing in the world. "That's what they said."
"They who?"
He didn't answer. Just stared out at the lake, face unreadable.
"Jake," I said, my voice cracking. "Who's 'they?"
He turned to me, and for a second, his grin was gone. Replaced by something darker. Something heavy.
"You're asking the wrong questions," he said softly.
"Then what the hell should I be asking?"
He patted the bench beside him. "Sit down."
I didn't move.
"Sit," he repeated, sharper this time.
"I said no."
His eyes locked on mine, and his voice dropped. "You owe me at least that."
Those words hit like a knife. Because he was right. If this was some twisted dream, or a ghost, or my mind finally breaking apart—it didn't matter. I owed him.
So I sat.
We sat there in silence. The kind of silence that doesn't rest—it gnaws.
"You didn't fake your death?" I asked finally.
"No."
"Then what is this?"
"Closure."
"Closure?" I laughed bitterly. "Jake, closure doesn't crawl out of a coffin and sit on a bench."
He smiled faintly. "You think I'm a ghost?"
"What else am I supposed to think?"
He leaned closer, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Maybe I'm here because you never let me go. Maybe I'm here because you buried something that wasn't mine."
My stomach knotted. "What are you talking about?"
He leaned back, eyes on the water again. "Don't trust what you remember."
"What?"
"You heard me."
He stood up suddenly, like he'd just remembered somewhere else to be.
"Wait," I said, panic flooding me. "Where are you going? You don't get to disappear on me again!"
He turned, walking backward, his voice calm, steady, terrifying.
"This isn't about me anymore. It's about you. And what you buried."
And then—he was gone.
Just gone.
No footsteps. No rustle of leaves. One second he was there; the next, nothing but shadows and mist.
I sat frozen, staring at the space where he'd been, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of a world that had just flipped upside down.
Finally, I forced myself back onto the bench. My hands shook as I pressed them against the wood, trying to ground myself, trying to convince myself this was real.
And that's when I felt it.
A slip of paper beneath the bench.
I pulled it out. A torn piece of notebook paper. The edges were ragged, damp from the mist.
And the handwriting—
It was mine.
But I didn't write it.
The words were short. Jagged. Uneven.
"Don't let them rewrite you, either."
My blood ran cold.
I read it once. Twice. Ten times. My own handwriting was staring back at me, delivering a message I didn't remember writing.
And suddenly, Jake's words rang in my ears: 'Don't trust what you remember.
The lake shimmered in the moonlight, silent. But I swear, for a second, I heard a voice in the rippling water.
It whispered my name.
And that's when I realised—
Jake hadn't just come back.
He'd come back for me.....