The power came back at 2:41 a.m.
Not all at once.
One light.
Then another.
Then the low hum of electricity returning like nothing had happened.
Like something had happened… and decided not to leave evidence.
I was still sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled to my chest. My phone lay facedown beside me, screen cracked from where I'd dropped it earlier.
I didn't remember sitting down.
That scared me more than the blackout.
The mirror reflected me perfectly again.
No delay.
No voice.
Just a tired girl with red eyes and hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
I stood slowly, legs stiff, and turned on the tap. Cold water splashed against my palms. I pressed them to my face and breathed.
In.
Out.
"Get it together," I whispered.
The words felt like they belonged to someone else.
My phone vibrated.
I flinched so hard it slipped off the counter.
When I picked it up, there were twelve missed calls.
All from the same number.
Unknown.
A message followed.
> Stop asking questions.
My throat tightened.
Another message appeared.
> You were never meant to remember this much.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
The phone stayed silent.
I didn't sleep.
At 6:10 a.m., my building's WhatsApp group exploded with messages.
Anyone else hear something last night?
Power outage was weird af.
Did someone scream?
Police were outside around 3?
My fingers hovered over the screen.
I typed:
Yes. I—
Then erased it.
At 9:30 a.m., I went outside for the first time since the stairwell.
The city felt wrong.
Not hostile.
Careful.
People moved normally, laughed, argued, checked their phones—but their eyes slid past me a second too late. Like they had to decide whether or not to register me.
At the grocery store, the cashier scanned my items twice.
The receipt printed blank.
She frowned at it, then at me.
"Huh," she muttered. "System error."
I forced a smile. "That happens."
She nodded absently.
But as she handed me my bag, she whispered:
"You shouldn't come back here."
My smile froze.
"What?"
She blinked, confusion flooding her face. "Sorry?"
"You just said—"
"I didn't," she said, genuinely puzzled. "I think you need rest."
I walked out shaking.
By afternoon, my headache had turned into pressure—like my skull was being gently but persistently squeezed.
At 4:18 p.m., my email refreshed on its own.
A new message appeared.
No sender.
No subject.
Just a single line.
> Memory leak contained.
I slammed the laptop shut.
My hands were sweating now.
My apartment door was closed when I reached home.
It shouldn't have been.
I always leave it slightly open when I step out for short errands.
Always.
I stood there, staring at the handle.
Slowly, I unlocked it.
Inside, nothing was out of place.
Except—
A photograph lay on my coffee table.
I didn't own a printer.
The photo showed a stairwell.
The same stairwell from last night.
Concrete steps.
Metal railing.
And me.
Lying on the floor.
Blood on the left side.
Blue kurta.
My breath left my body in a sound that wasn't quite a scream.
I dropped the bag. Apples rolled across the floor.
On the back of the photo, handwritten in neat, unfamiliar ink, were four words.
This already happened.
The mirror in the hallway caught my reflection as I staggered back.
She was there again.
Watching.
But this time—
She wasn't smiling.