By the time the bus wheezed into Boston, dawn had already smeared the horizon with pale gray. The city was waking—traffic murmuring, the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and exhaust rising into the chilled air. For the first time in days, I felt the faintest illusion of safety. Cities are loud. Cities forget. Maybe the noise could drown her out.
But the glove was still missing.
And the air still felt like it remembered me.
I stepped off the bus and slung my bag over my shoulder. My fingers brushed the edge of the book inside—Echoes of the Living. That title had begun to feel more like a prophecy than research.
I unfolded the note I'd torn from the book—the one with Dr. Miriam Keene's name scrawled across it—and followed the address.
The Society for Psychical Research wasn't what I expected. Not some gothic mansion humming with candlelight and secrets, but a squat, gray building tucked between an accounting office and a café. The sign out front was weathered, the letters half-faded: Boston Institute of Psychological and Paranormal Inquiry.
I hesitated before the door. My reflection in the glass wavered. For a moment, I thought I saw someone standing behind me—her outline faint and red—but when I turned, it was gone.
Inside, the air was warm and still, filled with the smell of paper and something faintly floral—lavender, maybe. A receptionist looked up from her computer.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I—uh—I'm looking for Dr. Miriam Keene."
Her brows lifted slightly. "Dr. Keene retired years ago. She still consults occasionally, though. May I ask what this is about?"
I hesitated. How do you explain something like this? That your dead lover's shadow is whispering through reflections and fogging bus windows?
"I read her work," I said finally. "And I think… I think I'm experiencing something she wrote about."
That was the polite way to say: I'm haunted.
The woman studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "You're not the first who's come in saying that." She scribbled something on a card and handed it to me. "She keeps an apartment not far from here. I'll call ahead."
I murmured a thank-you and left before I could change my mind.
Dr. Keene's apartment sat above a bookstore on a quiet street, its windows lined with plants and yellow curtains. It didn't look like a place that studied ghosts.
When she opened the door, she looked older than I expected—gray hair pulled back neatly, small, sharp eyes that carried the kind of calm only time could carve. But when she smiled, there was warmth there, too.
"You must be Nathan," she said. "Lydia at the office called. Come in."
Her apartment was a museum of memory: walls lined with books, shelves filled with stones, feathers, old photographs. Every object seemed to hum with quiet purpose.
"Tea?" she asked.
"Please." My voice came out hoarse.
As she poured, her gaze flicked briefly to the bag at my side. "You brought something with you."
I froze. "How did you—"
She smiled faintly. "You wear it on your face. Whatever it is, it's not done with you yet."
I set the book on the table between us. "You wrote this."
Her eyes softened as she touched the worn cover. "A lifetime ago. I never thought anyone still read it."
"I think it's happening to me," I said quietly. "The echoes you wrote about."
She poured two cups of tea and slid one toward me. "Tell me everything."
So I did.
About the diner. The glove. The voice. The photograph that changed. The writing in the condensation. The bus.
Through it all, she listened. No interruption, no disbelief. Only her steady gaze. When I finally stopped, she sat back, thoughtful.
"Residual hauntings are common," she said softly. "But what you describe… it's not just residue. It's relational. Interactive."
"She speaks," I said. "She knows me."
Dr. Keene nodded slowly. "Then she's not just echoing. She's tethered. And a tether only forms when something unresolved binds the living to the dead."
Guilt. The word pressed against my ribs, cold and sharp.
"She died in a fire," I said. "Two years ago. I… I couldn't get to her in time."
Dr. Keene tilted her head. "Couldn't—or didn't?"
The question landed like a blade. I looked away, fingers tightening around the cup.
"There was an argument," I admitted. "We fought. I left. I came back when I smelled smoke. By then…" My voice cracked. "She was gone."
Keene's eyes softened again. "Sometimes the dead don't seek revenge, Nathan. They seek acknowledgment. The truth of what really happened. Not the version you tell yourself to survive."
I swallowed hard. "And if I can't face that truth?"
"Then the haunting never ends."
A clock ticked in the silence that followed. Outside, the wind rattled the windows. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw movement reflected in the glass—red fabric fluttering like a breath.
"She's here," I whispered.
Dr. Keene didn't turn. "Of course she is. She followed the wound."
"How do I make her stop?"
Keene reached out, resting her thin hand on the book. "You don't make her stop. You meet her halfway. But not alone. You'll need to go back—to where it began. To the fire."
The idea made my stomach twist. "That place is gone. Burned to the ground."
"Places remember, Nathan. Even ashes hold memory."
I stared at her, struggling to breathe. "And if I go back?"
Her eyes met mine, steady, unflinching. "Then you either set her free… or she takes you with her."
Later, as I walked out into the evening air, her words echoed in my head. The city lights shimmered red in puddles, stretching and bending, like the color was alive.
I glanced at a passing bus window.
For a split second, I saw her reflection beside mine—Emma, smiling faintly, eyes glistening.
And then she whispered, almost tenderly, "See you soon."
The light flickered. The glass rippled.
And I knew the road home was waiting.