Morning finds me in the only place that doesn't ask questions—the old motel off Route 9, the kind that rents by the hour but never bothers to count them. I rent the same room every time. Room 12. Second floor. The number's half-rusted, the "2" hanging crooked, like it's too tired to stay upright.
I don't come here to sleep. Not really. Sleep stopped being restful the night Emma died. I just come here to lie down and pretend that silence means peace.
But today, silence feels wrong.
The light coming through the blinds is thin and gray, slicing the room into strips. Dust hangs in the air like it's waiting for something. My jacket's draped over the chair. The glove—her glove—is on the table beside the bed, where I dropped it last night.
Only now, it's dry.
And clean.
No blood. No smell of iron.
I sit up, throat tight. My mind scrambles for logic, but logic packed its bags two years ago and never came back.
I pick up the glove. The leather feels warm. Like skin.
For a moment, I almost call her name—Emma—but I stop myself. Saying her name feels like an invitation.
I drop it back onto the table. "Not today," I mutter.
The walls creak in reply.
By nine, I'm outside, nursing a paper cup of burnt coffee. The motel manager, Marty, leans on the doorframe smoking his usual morning cigarette. He's a round man with sad eyes and the kind of quiet that comes from seeing too much.
"You look worse than yesterday," he says.
"Appreciate the concern."
He shrugs. "You pay on time. That's all I care about." He flicks ash onto the concrete. "But if you're gonna keep having… episodes, I need to know you're not bringing trouble here."
"I'm not."
He studies me, like he's trying to read the things I'm not saying. "You still blaming yourself?"
I stiffen. "You don't know what you're talking about."
He exhales a thin trail of smoke. "You forget, I read the papers. Everyone did. That fire—"
"Stop." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
Marty raises his hands in surrender. "Alright. Just… sometimes ghosts don't stay gone because we won't let them."
I look away. "Ghosts aren't real."
He chuckles, low and humorless. "Then what's keeping you awake?"
I walk until the town starts to dissolve behind me—cracked sidewalks, half-empty stores, the gray sprawl of nowhere stretching out like a wound that never closed.
It's not much of a town. Never was. But it's the last place she smiled at me, so I keep orbiting it, like I owe it something.
The memory hits me in flashes.
Her laugh—light, bubbling, impossible not to love.
The flicker of candlelight against her red dress.
My voice—angry, too loud, saying things I didn't mean.
Then the smell of smoke.
And the sound.
The sound of her calling my name before everything went red.
I stop walking. My hands are shaking. I shove them into my pockets. The glove's still there, even though I swear I left it on the table.
My pulse stutters.
Across the street, a woman in a red coat is standing perfectly still. Her face is hidden by her hair, but something about her—the way she tilts her head—pulls me like gravity.
I blink. She's gone.
A whisper rides the wind, so faint I almost miss it.
"You left me."
I take a step back, heart hammering. The glove burns against my leg, like it's alive.
A car honks, breaking the spell. I move fast, ducking into the first open shop I see—a bookstore that smells of paper and rain.
The bell above the door jingles.
"Morning," the clerk says. She's young, polite smile, glasses slipping down her nose. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Everyone keeps saying that.
"Something like that," I answer, eyes still scanning the street through the window. No red coat. No movement.
"Looking for anything?" she asks.
"Do you have books on… hauntings? Or—" I hesitate. "Objects that hold energy. Memories."
She quirks a brow. "That's… specific."
"Just curious," I lie.
She walks to a shelf, fingers trailing along the spines. "My grandma used to say some things remember more than people do. Places, too. Ever been somewhere and felt like it didn't want you there?"
I look around the dim shop. "Everywhere I go."
She glances over her shoulder. "That's the thing. Sometimes it's not the place that remembers."
Her tone changes slightly, like she's quoting someone else. "Sometimes, it's the person."
A chill crawls up my neck.
She finds a small, weathered book and hands it to me. Echoes of the Living: The Psychology of Hauntings.
"Half the town thinks it's nonsense," she says. "But the author lived around here, years ago. Said the mind can project what it refuses to bury."
I flip through the pages. The margins are full of handwritten notes—someone else's thoughts bleeding through the printed words. A few phrases catch my eye:
Guilt is a tether.
Love becomes residue.
The dead do not follow us. We follow them.
My throat tightens.
"How much?" I ask.
"Take it," she says. "You look like you need it more than I do."
I thank her and step outside.
The sun's climbed higher, but everything feels dimmer. The street hums with distant noise—cars, people—but it all sounds wrong, like I'm hearing it from underwater.
I walk back toward the motel, book in hand, glove in my pocket, the air thick with the taste of rain and old smoke.
Halfway there, I stop.
On the sidewalk ahead of me, faint but clear, are wet footprints. Bare feet. Small. Leading toward Room 12.
I follow them, heart thudding harder with every step. The closer I get, the colder the air becomes, until my breath fogs in front of me.
The footprints end at my door.
There's a sound inside. A soft humming. Familiar.
Her song.
My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob. The metal is freezing, but the glove in my pocket burns hot enough to sting.
I take a breath, the kind that feels like it could be my last, and push the door open.
The room is dim. The curtains flutter even though the window's closed. On the table, where the glove should've been—there are two.
And sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hair falling over her face, is Emma.
Wearing red.