My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling. The rational part of me screamed to shut the laptop, to unplug it, to pretend it wasn't happening. But something darker — desperate, reckless — made me type.
"Who is this?"—to the unknown number. My skin cold, my sense became more sensitive with any sound—the hanging clock, the small fish tank at the corner of the room, the lava lamp—everything.
"Typing…"
"…"
"Someone you wish to see you again.."
My mother's face flashed behind my eyes. Her voice. Her scent. The last message she'd sent me.
"This is joking—you gotta kidding me…" . I tried to reassure myself, I prepared to press the block button, but my phone screen already lights up with notifications.
Instinctively kicked in, my hands catch it as soon as it start ringing, the messages is from Detective Hong, who I thought already disappeared in my mind a long time ago with the plan I shared with him. He finally opened the chat.
You finally read it, I typed, my pulse quickening with every letter.
A pause, waiting him to answer me back, is feels like an hour just to let him reply it in 1 minute.
Took you long enough to find me again.
The words sank into me like ice water. I dug my nails into the carpet, trying to keep my hands steady.
I wrote you years ago. You never answered, I pressed back, anger flaring through the fear.
The dots reappeared, hesitated, dissolved, then returned. The rhythm of someone choosing their words too carefully.
I was watching. But it's too dangerous.
I want to slam my phone down, my breath came short.
Dangerous? My mother DIED. You promised to help me—where the hell were you?
I'm not waiting him to answer, continue to text.
Did you know that she gone for a fucking years without knowing why she have to, I'm here to seeking the truth, not here to seeking SYMPATHY.
The screen stayed blank for so long I thought he'd disappeared again. Then—..
I accepted your offer, 5,000 dollars for first payment, I will take the rest when you found what you want to know.
I let out a bitter laugh, money always solving anything, the Mac screen suddenly lights up with another notification—a new message.
Stop chasing what it's meant to be buried, don't risk your life.
It burned into my mind—no, never again. This time, I would dig. Dig until I unearthed every secret, until I could whisper her name under God in peace, until she could finally rest.
I cut the internet, unplugged the charger, and shut the MacBook down. The screen went black, but the glow didn't leave my mind.
I sank into the couch, the cushions stiff and unyielding beneath me. My hands clenched my knees as a plan began to form, each step precise, calculated, obsessive. The hunt had begun.
The Mac—is where I would begin. I opened it, waiting for the internet connection again.
I checked the network logs, my fingers moving on autopilot, quick and precise — muscle memory from my training in Moscow.
The system showed two previous connections to the same network.
Both from this exact IP.
Both years before her death. Someone, or even her mother might bring this laptop to here—the night she die.
My mother is an enemy of technology. Whenever she's forced to face her own phone or laptop, you can almost see the battle in her eyes — a war she never intends to win. She would rather sit before her old typewriter, fingers striking the keys with the rhythm of a heartbeat, than touch a MacBook Pro.
That stubbornness shaped her life into something of a quiet ritual — a discipline she built around certainty and intention. Every action had to mean something. Every decision had to be earned. She believed the mind should be sharper than any device, and that before you press a button, you must first think — properly.
But if she never used it herself—then how is possible that this laptop can connect to internet already.
I shut the laptop, the click echoing too loud in the quiet room. Something about it felt wrong — the way it connected on its own, the way it waited for me.
Tomorrow, I'd ask the receptionist. Quietly. Casually. Just a question about the hotel's Wi-Fi history, maybe who had logged in under this room before me.
The hotel room was too quiet. Too sterile. The kind of quiet that makes every thought echo louder than it should.
Lucas still sleep like dead, his body slumped deep on the mattress, his snoring might keep me up all night—I will deal with him tomorrow morning.
Lay on the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling where the shadows kept shifting — thin lines, moving like veins under skin. Every few seconds, the red light of the MacBook blinked on the desk. A pulse. A reminder. I should've turned it off, unplugged it, thrown it away — but I couldn't. The thought of leaving it improperly done clawed at me.
I throw the blanket on the Mac. My fingers twitched once, twice, three times — a rhythm I didn't remember learning but couldn't stop. It used to help me count down the noise. Not anymore.
I got up. Checked the lock. Once.
Then again.
And once more, because once never feels real.
Already 2AM.
The history, message, her image, everything keep running around my sleepless mind.
Click.clack.click.click.
The clock ticked somewhere near me — slow, but steady. The deal with Detective Hong kept circling in my mind, pulling me further from sleep. It's been a long time since I thought I'd given up digging deeper. But the truth is, the deeper I dive, the more it ruins me — piece by piece, thought by thought.
3:07 a.m.
The clock on the wall glowed in the dark like an unblinking eye. I hadn't slept. I wasn't sure if I'd even tried. The silence pressed down on my chest — too clean, too controlled, like it was waiting for me to break the rules first.
I got up again. Checked the lock. The window. The charger. Then the lock once more. It had to be three times — no more, no less. Anything else meant something bad would happen. That's what my brain whispered anyway. It didn't matter that I knew it was a lie — fear doesn't negotiate.
3:42 a.m.
I sat by the desk, staring at the MacBook. Its silver surface caught the dim light from the street outside. Raindrops had begun to tap the window — slow, deliberate, like someone counting along with my heartbeat.
The storm came quietly at first, a low murmur rolling over the city's spine. Then thunder cracked, close enough to rattle the glass. The power flickered. I didn't move.
It was strange — I'd seen blood before, crime scenes, bodies reduced to evidence. But this? A machine humming in a dead woman's room — my mother's — that terrified me more than anything.
4:01 a.m.
The rain turned heavy, thick, relentless. I watched it streak down the window like ink bleeding through paper. Somewhere in that sound, I thought I heard her — the way she used to breathe when she was typing, slow and measured.
A foolish part of me wanted to believe she'd left a message. Another, crueler part knew she'd left nothing at all.
Still, I whispered into the empty room,
"Why here, Mother?"
The thunder didn't answer. But the MacBook light blinked again — one small pulse, red and alive.
Shit…
I have to sleep.
Five fucking hours left before I have to drag myself back to the apartment — and the thought alone already pisses me off.
I turned on my side, stared at the blinking red light on the desk until it blurred. My brain wouldn't shut up — ticking with the same rhythm as the clock, looping through the same thoughts I'd already torn apart a hundred times tonight.
"Enough," I muttered to no one.
I closed my eyes.
Didn't pray. Didn't breathe deep like they say you should.
Just let the weight of everything press down until it smothered me quiet.
If sleep came, it wasn't mercy — just surrender.
"Good night, Mother."