The glove is still in my hand when Ruby rushes over. Her voice sounds muffled, like I'm underwater.
"Hey—are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
If only it were that simple.
I drop the glove onto the table. It lands with a soft, wet sound, leaving a dark mark on the wood. Ruby's eyes flick to it, and her face changes—just slightly, but enough for me to notice.
"Where'd you get that?"
"It was on the counter," I say. "That guy who came in—he left it."
She frowns. "What guy?"
"The one in the dark coat. Sat right there." I point to the empty stool. There's no trace of him now—not even a damp spot from the rain.
Ruby looks between me and the stool, confusion turning into something heavier. "You're the only one in here, hon. Haven't had anyone else since eleven."
The clock behind her reads 12:17. I glance at it, then at the window. The rain's stopped. The street outside is empty, no footprints, no cars—nothing.
I know what I saw.
But I've also learned that knowing and proving aren't the same thing.
I force a shaky laugh. "Must be the coffee. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep."
Ruby doesn't believe me, but she doesn't push. She just nods and walks away, pretending not to keep glancing back.
When she disappears into the kitchen, I stare at the glove again. It's still damp, but the puddle beneath it hasn't spread. If anything, it's shrinking—like the glove is absorbing it. The faint scent of iron hits my nose again, stronger this time.
Blood.
My chest tightens. I don't know whose.
I reach for the glove again, against every instinct screaming don't. The moment my fingers brush the leather, the diner goes silent.
No hum from the fridge. No rain on the windows. No sound from the kitchen.
Just a suffocating stillness.
Then—faint at first—a whisper. My name.
I jerk my head up, scanning the diner. Empty. Then again, closer this time, curling right behind my ear.
"You forgot me."
The voice is hers.
Two years gone and I'd know that voice anywhere—soft, warm, threaded with sadness.
Emma.
The air feels heavier now, colder. My reflection in the window isn't right. The booth behind me is empty, but in the glass, there's someone sitting there—a woman in a red dress, one hand resting on her cheek, smiling like she used to.
Except her eyes are too dark.
Too knowing.
"Emma?" I whisper.
Her reflection tilts its head. "You shouldn't have taken it."
My throat goes dry. "The glove?"
She smiles wider. "It remembers."
A crash from the kitchen breaks the trance. I spin around—the reflection's gone. Just me again, alone in the booth.
Ruby's shouting something from the back, but her voice warps, stretching like a radio caught between stations. The light overhead flickers once, twice, then steadies.
I grab my jacket, shove the glove into my pocket, and push out the door before she can stop me.
Outside, the air is sharp and wet, the kind that feels like it's peeling the night off your skin. I don't know where I'm going, only that I can't stay.
As I reach the corner, I feel it—a faint pulse against my leg. The glove.
I stop walking. The street's empty, but there's movement in the reflections—shapes that don't belong.
One of the streetlights flickers, and for a moment, the world blinks red. The color fills everything—the buildings, the asphalt, the air itself.
And in that red glow, I see her.
Standing at the end of the street.
Emma.
Still wearing the same red dress from the night she died.
My heartbeat trips over itself. I blink—and she's gone. Only the echo of her voice lingers, soft as rain.
"You can't keep running, Nathan."
The glove pulses again—once, twice—then goes still.
I stand there for a long time, staring into the empty street. I tell myself it isn't real. That grief plays tricks. That I'm tired, haunted by guilt and insomnia.
But deep down, I know the truth.
The glove didn't just belong to the man who vanished.
It belonged to her.
And she wants it back.