Even when we believe we walk alone, they guide us.
I woke with the taste of pine on my tongue and the memory of snow burning behind my eyelids.
I didn't sleep well. My lower back ached, a dull knot I tried to rub away with the heel of my hand. The room smelled faintly of dust and kitchen waste, the kind of scent that clung to quiet spaces too long untouched. I pulled the covers over my nose to mask the neglect.
Dreams drifted in and out like fading threads, leaving behind fragments—trees blurred by snow, a man in a dark cloak, and something flickering just beyond reach.
It was strange, seeing snow in my dreams. I've only ever heard about it in privileged archives of old merge files, but it hasn't fallen here in all twenty-three years of my life, and no one else even knows it ever existed back then. The city-controlled climate shield makes sure that we only ever have warm and UV-shielded days with scheduled rain, nothing else.
I lay there on my side for a moment, confused. I stared at the table, thinking about how I hadn't cleaned this apartment since he left. I didn't have the energy for anything beyond work.
Still, I reached for the journal the moment I remembered it. My heart stuttered as my fingers brushed the worn cover. It was cool, slightly warped, like time had pressed into it rather than passed it by.
Maybe Hasley's words could give me answers my dreams never could.
I opened the next passage. Crisp pages between my fingers.
Hasley didn't write like someone trying to sound wise. holding the journal firmly in my hands, it was heavy not just in weight but in grief. She wrote like someone bleeding. Her sorrow wasn't curated or crafted for readers. It simply existed. But maybe it was meant for me.
Two hundred years separated us, yet her voice reached me as if no time had passed.
I was her descendant, her final thread, and somehow her sorrow had found its way to me.
I'd spent years folding mine into silence, trying to make it smaller.
She gave hers a voice.
And somehow, reading it gave mine one too.
Journal entry - May 15th, 2025
I waited in the driveway until Clara pulled up in her old blue hatchback, the same one she's driven since college.
It hummed low as it idled, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
She gave me a small, quiet smile as I opened the door.
"Hey," she said, almost like it was any other day.
Then she reached for the radio, turning the volume down to a whisper as I settled beside her.
I haven't driven since the accident, when I swerved to avoid a stray cat and hit a tree.
Since the day I lost him.
He survived the surgery at first, but his heart gave out soon after.
They said his body couldn't take all the stress. I stopped listening after that.
I lived. Somehow. I lived, and he didn't. That's all I could hear in that moment.
I was unconscious for months. Some days, I wish I hadn't woken up at all.
I stared out the window, lost in my spiraling thoughts, until I saw it.
The cat.
Gray. Fluffy. Familiar.
Sitting just beyond the curb, yellow eyes locked with mine, too still, too knowing.
My breath caught.
"Stop the car!" I shouted, my voice was sharper than I intended.
Clara slammed the brakes so hard the seatbelt bit into my collarbone. Before the car had even stopped rocking, I threw open the door and hit the ground running.
The cat bolted ahead of me, a gray blur weaving through the fractured geometry of the neighborhood. My shoes pounded against the cracked pavement, each breath tearing through my throat like fire. Cold air stung my lungs, my heart racing to catch up with my legs.
The world narrowed to movement—the flash of a gray tail, the slap of my soles against uneven stone, the rush of blood in my ears drowning out Clara's distant voice.
Not even a single bird stirred overhead. The silence felt alive, breathing with me, watching me.
My body screamed at me to stop, but grief kept me moving. I couldn't lose this too.
It darted left, behind a leaning fence whose boards were warped and rotting. I slammed a hand against the top rail, splinters biting my skin, and vaulted over. The wood cracked beneath my palm with a sharp snap.
I stumbled as I landed, knees scraping the rough ground, and caught myself just in time to see the cat vanish into a narrow doorway of a crumbling house.
My heart stuttered.
The house hadn't been here before. I was sure of it. Its shape was wrong, its angles sharp in a way that made the back of my neck prickle—as if it had been waiting for me.
I slowed, steps faltering. The front door hung slightly off its hinges, swaying in a breeze I couldn't feel. A hollow creak escaped it, almost like a whisper, before it fell silent again.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
I hovered on the threshold, fingers hovering near the frame, the wood cold and damp beneath my skin.
The scent of dust and mildew rolled out to meet me, heavy and stale, like time itself had been sealed inside this place, biding its time.
I took one step forward. The floor groaned beneath my weight—a single, splintered note swallowed by the suffocating silence.
The cat sat calmly on a desk beneath a dirt-smudged window.
Outside, the garden had grown wild and beautiful.
My chest ached. We used to garden together.
A white envelope rested on the desk. My name–Hasley–was written in familiar handwriting.
I grabbed it and ran.
Clara circled back and found me, pulling up with a sharp look.
"Hasley—what was that?" she asked, hands still on the wheel.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Another drive in silence.
The house I returned to felt hollow—too much space for one person. I collapsed into bed, still clutching the envelope. Eventually, I opened it.
"My dear Hasley,
I found the cat we almost hit that day. I named him Chance. What are the chances we'd be separated this way? I miss you. I don't know if you've noticed, but I've grown a garden for you in the back. I had a surprise—I bought the house. Please don't be upset. We needed a change. I know you could make it our own. I hope it cheers you up."
I stared at the letter in disbelief. The handwriting looked like mine. Too much like mine. But I didn't write it. I've never seen that house before…
That night, I couldn't sleep. My mind raced. I finally passed out sometime before morning.
I woke up sixteen hours later. Still shaken, I called the bank.
"Yes, Mrs. Hasley, the property is in your name," the woman confirmed. "It was purchased two weeks ago."
Two weeks ago.
The title was in their vault. They even offered to help me sell my current home.
I didn't know what to say.
Mrs. Hasley. The title alone made my heart ache.
I miss being his.
I hung up and walked through the house we'd shared, touched the walls. Let memories rise from the corners like dust. Could I really leave it all behind?
But the little house on Spring Lane still called me.
Like a whisper I couldn't ignore.
I closed the book slowly, holding it against my chest for a moment as if it could steady my heartbeat.
At the windowsill, I crouched beside the planter and carefully slid the journal into the hollow space between the two pots. My fingers lingered on the soil's edge, checking, double-checking, as if I could bury Hasley's words as easily as I buried my own. Only when I was certain it was hidden did I exhale and rise, forcing myself toward the mirror to prepare for work.
I didn't think I should be taking this back to work right now. I'd rather not get caught with it or lose it before finishing. I don't have any family left, and somehow Hasley's words made me feel closer to her, like I still had family here.
I stood in front of the mirror, fastening the collar of my museum uniform, one button at a time. The surface flickered softly to life, its glow brushing cool light across my skin. My reflection looked back—calm, composed, just tired enough to pass for normal. But something in the expression felt… off. Not wrong, exactly. Just unfamiliar with myself. A shift in the eyes. The faintest tug at the mouth.
The mirror's light in the adaptive glass pulsed once, in response to my presence, now hiding the shadows that were once there. The apartment was quiet—too still. I moved through it with practiced efficiency—toast untouched on the counter, the dispenser having warmed it hours ago. I pulled my jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged it on. The plants by the window had turned toward the filtered sun, their leaves shifting slightly as the light panel adjusted with the hour.
At the door, I tightened the clasp on my threadband—thin metal strands woven like fabric around my wrist, humming faintly with recognition. The lock panel blinked once, then slid open with a soft hiss.
Some mornings, it was harder to leave. Not for any real reason. Just a sense—like something important had been misplaced but couldn't be named.
Today, that feeling was stronger.