Elias Mercer woke at 7:03 in the morning.
He knew this because the alarm clock on his bedside table was three minutes fast. It had been three minutes fast for nearly four years. He had tried correcting it once, but something about seeing 7:00 instead of 7:03 when the alarm rang bothered him more than it should have, so before leaving for work that morning he changed it back. Three minutes ahead. Exactly as it had always been.
The alarm sounded, and Elias slapped the top of the clock. Silence returned to the apartment. For several seconds, he remained beneath the blanket with his eyes open, staring at the white ceiling above him. A small crack ran near the corner where the wall met the ceiling. He had noticed it three months after moving in and had spent the following two years occasionally telling himself that he should contact the landlord about it. He never did. It wasn't getting larger. Probably.
Elias sighed. "Thursday."
He hated Thursdays. There was nothing particularly wrong with Thursday, of course. Monday at least had the decency to be miserable. Friday gave people something to anticipate, and Wednesday was the midpoint. Thursday simply existed between things.
Elias understood Thursday.
He climbed out of bed, the floor cold beneath his feet. His apartment consisted of one bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen, and a living room that was technically large enough for guests despite the fact that Elias rarely had any. He was twenty-eight years old, single, steadily employed, and burdened by neither extraordinary debt nor extraordinary accomplishment. He had no criminal record, no unusual talents, and no particularly interesting hobbies.
Elias Mercer was, by almost every measurable standard, an ordinary man.
He brushed his teeth, showered, shaved the uneven patch beneath his jaw that he always missed, and put on the same dark trousers he wore most Thursdays. White shirt. Gray tie. Black coat. He burned his toast, scraped the blackened edge into the sink, made coffee with too much sugar and not enough milk, then stood beside the kitchen window while drinking it.
Outside, the city was beginning to wake. Cars crawled through the intersection below while someone leaned on a horn. A dog barked from one of the neighboring apartment buildings, and a woman in a yellow coat hurried across the street with a newspaper held above her head against the light rain. Elias watched her disappear beneath the awning of the pharmacy and finished his coffee.
Everything was where it belonged.
He liked that. Not because he was particularly orderly—his bedroom floor suggested otherwise—but because there was something comforting about predictability. The train would arrive at 7:48. Mr. Alvarez from apartment 304 would be smoking outside despite claiming every month that he had finally quit. The coffee shop downstairs would have twelve people inside, thirteen if the weather was bad. Mrs. Palmer would walk her terrier past the apartment entrance at approximately 7:39. The terrier would attempt to bite Elias. Mrs. Palmer would apologize, and Elias would say it was fine.
The terrier's name was Pickles.
Elias disliked Pickles.
He checked his watch. 7:31.
"Right."
He picked up his bag, keys, wallet, and phone, then left the apartment. Mr. Alvarez was outside, smoking exactly where Elias expected him to be.
"Morning, Eli."
"Morning."
"Last one."
Elias glanced at the cigarette. "You said that yesterday."
"This one's serious."
"You said that yesterday too."
Mr. Alvarez stared at him.
Elias stopped. "What?"
The older man blinked, then laughed. "Nothing."
Elias frowned. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing. Go. You'll miss your train."
Elias checked his watch. 7:34. He continued toward the stairs.
Behind him, Mr. Alvarez called, "See you tomorrow."
Elias raised one hand without turning around. "Yeah."
He reached the first floor just as Mrs. Palmer passed outside. Pickles immediately began growling. The terrier lunged when Elias stepped through the entrance, forcing Mrs. Palmer to yank the leash backward.
"Oh, Elias, I'm so sorry."
"It's fine."
"He doesn't mean anything by it."
"He absolutely does."
Mrs. Palmer laughed, and the two continued in opposite directions.
Everything was where it belonged.
The coffee shop had twelve people inside.
Elias counted. He always counted, though not intentionally. He simply noticed things. Twelve. Exactly.
He ordered the same thing he ordered most mornings, a large coffee with one cream and two sugars. The girl behind the counter wrote ELI on the cup. She had worked there for seven months and had never once spelled his name correctly, and Elias had stopped correcting her sometime around month two.
"Have a good one, Eli."
"You too."
Outside, rain tapped softly against the pavement. Elias reached the station at 7:45, and the train arrived at 7:48, three minutes late according to his watch and perfectly on time according to everyone else's.
He boarded and stood near the doors. Someone's headphones were loud enough that he could hear the bass. An exhausted-looking man in a blue suit slept with his head pressed against the window. A teenage girl was reading a paperback, while a mother quietly argued with her son about why he could not have chocolate before school.
Elias watched the city pass through the glass. Buildings, cars, people, billboards, rain.
The train entered a tunnel, and the window became black. For a moment, Elias saw only his reflection: dark hair that needed cutting, brown eyes, and a face that always looked slightly more tired than he actually felt. Nothing remarkable.
Then the train emerged from the tunnel.
Elias looked outside and frowned.
There was a building beside the tracks.
It was tall, concrete, perhaps twenty floors. There was nothing particularly unusual about it except for one simple fact.
Elias had never seen it before.
He rode this train five days a week and had done so for six years. The building stood perhaps thirty meters from the tracks, impossible to miss, yet Elias could not remember ever seeing it. No construction equipment surrounded it. There was no scaffolding or unfinished concrete. It looked old. Weather stains ran beneath several windows, and rust marked the fire escape.
Elias stared as the train passed, but the building quickly disappeared behind another structure. He continued looking backward through the window.
"Huh."
The woman beside him glanced over.
Elias shook his head. "Nothing."
By the time he reached work, he had mostly forgotten about it.
Mostly.
Elias worked for an insurance firm.
He did not like insurance. He did not hate insurance either. This was perhaps worse, because hatred at least required passion.
His official position was Claims Processing Specialist II, which sounded considerably more important than clicking through forms for eight hours and occasionally calling strangers to ask whether their basement had flooded before or after their policy renewal. His desk was on the ninth floor, cubicle 9F-42. The company had renovated the office three years earlier but had somehow managed to make everything look older.
Gray carpet. Gray walls. Gray desks. Gray chairs.
The company logo was blue.
Elias appreciated the logo. It was the only thing in the room with color.
"Morning."
Marcus leaned over the cubicle partition, already eating something from a foil wrapper.
Elias removed his coat. "What is that?"
"Breakfast."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"It answers everything."
"It looks radioactive."
Marcus looked down at the pastry. "Blueberry."
"Blueberries aren't orange."
"Modern agriculture."
Elias sat down.
Marcus pointed toward the elevators. "You hear about Larson?"
"No."
"Quit."
Elias turned. "Seriously?"
"Apparently."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Didn't he just buy a house?"
Marcus shrugged. "Said he wanted to spend more time with his family."
"He hates his family."
"Maybe he wants to spend more time hating them."
Elias smiled despite himself, and Marcus disappeared behind the partition.
The computer took three minutes to start. It always did. Elias opened his email, found twenty-seven unread messages waiting for him, and began working. Claims. Forms. Phone calls. Spreadsheets. Numbers.
At 9:14, Rebecca from accounting passed his desk.
"Morning, Elias."
"Morning."
She continued walking.
At 9:18, Rebecca from accounting passed his desk again.
"Morning, Elias."
Elias looked up. "Morning."
She continued walking, and he stared after her for a moment. Maybe she had forgotten something.
At 9:31, Marcus leaned over the partition.
"You hear about Larson?"
Elias stopped typing.
Marcus was eating another orange pastry.
"Quit."
Elias stared at him.
Marcus chewed. "What?"
"You already told me."
"Told you what?"
"Larson."
Marcus frowned. "No, I didn't."
"Yeah."
"No."
"About fifteen minutes ago."
Marcus stared at him for a moment, then smiled. "Very funny."
"I'm not joking."
"You're getting old, Mercer."
"I'm twenty-eight."
"Basically dead."
Marcus disappeared again.
Elias sat motionless, staring at the cursor blinking on his monitor. Once. Twice. Three times. He looked toward the clock. 9:32.
He opened the office messaging application, though he already knew there would be nothing there. His conversation history with Marcus contained no mention of Larson. Of course it didn't. They had spoken aloud.
Elias leaned back in his chair. He was probably tired. He hadn't slept particularly well. He remembered waking sometime around three in the morning, though perhaps he had only dreamed it.
He resumed working.
At 10:07, Rebecca from accounting walked past again.
"Morning, Elias."
This time, Elias watched her approach.
She smiled politely.
"Morning."
She passed.
Elias turned in his chair. "Rebecca."
She stopped. "Yeah?"
"How many times have you walked past my desk today?"
She laughed. "What?"
"Just humor me."
"Once?"
"You came by earlier."
"No, I didn't."
"You said good morning."
Rebecca's smile faded slightly. "Maybe you're thinking of someone else."
"No."
"Okay..."
Elias immediately regretted asking. "Sorry. Never mind."
Rebecca gave him the careful expression people reserved for strangers speaking to themselves on public transportation.
"Get some coffee."
"Yeah."
She left.
Elias watched her enter the elevator. The doors closed, and he slowly turned back toward his computer.
Something cold crawled beneath his skin.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Just unease. A feeling without enough evidence to justify itself.
He worked until lunch.
At 12:06, Elias and Marcus left the building.
There was a convenience store across the street. They went there often, not every day, but perhaps twice a week. Marcus headed toward the refrigerated section while Elias grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water.
The cashier was an older man Elias didn't recognize. He was thin, balding, and wore wire-framed glasses.
He scanned the sandwich.
Beep.
Then the water.
Beep.
"Back again?"
Elias looked up. "Sorry?"
The man smiled. "Back again."
Elias glanced behind himself. There was nobody there.
"You mean me?"
"Who else?"
Elias smiled uncertainly. "I don't think we've met."
The cashier laughed. "Very funny."
"I'm serious."
"Thursday already, huh?"
Elias felt something inside him tighten. "What?"
The cashier placed the sandwich into a bag. "Every Thursday."
Elias stared at him. "What happens every Thursday?"
The man's hand stopped for only a fraction of a second before continuing.
"You come in."
"I've never seen you before."
The cashier's smile disappeared.
Marcus approached carrying an energy drink and two packages of chips. "Problem?"
The cashier looked from Marcus to Elias. "No problem."
Elias didn't move. "How long have you worked here?"
The cashier hesitated. "Eleven years."
Marcus snorted. "He's definitely been here longer than that."
Elias looked at Marcus. "What?"
Marcus placed his items on the counter. "What?"
"You know him?"
Marcus looked at the cashier. "Yeah."
"Since when?"
"I don't know. Forever."
"We come here all the time."
"Exactly."
"I've never seen him."
Marcus studied him.
For several seconds, nobody spoke. The refrigerator compressor hummed somewhere behind them, and a fluorescent light flickered above aisle three.
The cashier slowly scanned Marcus's drink.
Beep.
"You're messing with me."
"I'm not."
"Eli."
"I'm serious."
Marcus laughed, not because it was funny, but because there was nothing else to do.
"Okay."
Elias looked back at the cashier. The man no longer looked amused.
He looked uncomfortable.
Almost frightened.
"What's my name?"
The cashier blinked. "What?"
"My name."
"Eli."
Elias felt his stomach drop. Marcus said his name all the time. That meant nothing.
Still—
"Full name."
The cashier stared.
"Elias Mercer."
The store suddenly seemed very quiet.
Marcus stopped smiling.
Elias swallowed. "How do you know that?"
The cashier's expression shifted into confusion.
Genuine confusion.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at the register.
"I..."
His brow tightened.
"I don't know."
No one moved.
The cashier looked toward the shop window, where rain slid down the glass.
"I don't know."
Marcus touched Elias's shoulder. "Come on."
Elias remained where he was.
"Elias."
Marcus pulled him slightly, and the two left.
Outside, Marcus handed him the bag. "You know that guy."
"No."
"Maybe you forgot."
"I didn't forget."
"People forget faces."
"He knew my full name."
"Maybe you've paid with a card."
"It doesn't show my name to the cashier."
"Rewards account?"
"I don't have one."
Marcus exhaled. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"I don't know, man."
Elias looked through the window.
The cashier was still standing behind the register.
Watching him.
Then the man raised one hand in a small wave, as though saying goodbye to an old friend.
Elias stepped away from the window.
He couldn't focus for the rest of the afternoon.
At 2:47, he searched for the convenience store online. It had existed for twenty-three years. Nothing strange. He found photographs, and the cashier appeared in several of them. One was from seven years earlier. Another from three. One had been posted only six months ago.
Same man.
Elias had apparently walked past him hundreds of times and had likely spoken to him more than once.
Maybe Marcus was right. Maybe his memory was worse than he thought.
But Elias remembered things. Not perfectly. No one did. Yet he remembered the barista misspelling his name. He remembered Pickles hating him. He remembered the crack in his ceiling and the train arriving at 7:48. He remembered which vending machine on the third floor occasionally gave two bottles instead of one.
Why wouldn't he remember a man he supposedly saw every Thursday?
At 3:02, Elias went to the restroom. He splashed cold water on his face and looked into the mirror.
"You need sleep."
His reflection agreed.
He dried his hands and turned toward the door.
Then stopped.
There were four bathroom stalls.
Elias stared.
He counted them again. One. Two. Three. Four.
There had always been three.
He was certain.
He had worked in this building for six years. Three stalls. The third had a broken lock. The first had a chipped corner near the base. There had never been a fourth.
But there it was.
A perfectly ordinary bathroom stall. Same pale partitions. Same metal door. Same cheap latch.
Elias approached it. The door was closed. He bent slightly, but there were no feet beneath it. He reached for the handle, then stopped.
Ridiculous.
It was a bathroom stall. Nothing more.
Maybe they renovated.
No.
Not without him noticing.
Maybe he misremembered.
No.
He opened it.
Empty.
A toilet. Paper dispenser. A small stain near the base.
Nothing unusual.
Elias stared, then stepped inside and placed his hand against the wall.
Solid.
Cold.
Real.
"What are you doing?"
Elias spun around.
A man from legal stood near the sinks.
Elias stepped out. "Nothing."
The man raised an eyebrow.
Elias pointed toward the stall. "When did they add this?"
"Add what?"
"The stall."
The man looked.
"That's always been there."
Elias laughed once.
Short.
Dry.
"No."
The man didn't answer.
Elias left.
On the train home, he counted the stations.
Not because he needed to, but because suddenly he wanted to know whether they were all still there.
Central. Warren. Maddox. Gray Street. Halley. Bridgewater.
Everything normal.
Then the strange building from that morning appeared beside the tracks.
Elias stood quickly.
Still there.
Twenty floors.
Maybe nineteen.
No.
Twenty.
He counted the visible rows as the train approached.
The train passed the building, and Elias pressed closer to the window. There was signage above the entrance, but he couldn't read it from that distance. For some reason, the sight of the building made his chest feel tight.
He took out his phone and opened the camera. The train curved, and the building appeared again between two warehouses.
Elias took a photograph.
The image blurred slightly from the motion but remained recognizable. He zoomed in.
Concrete. Windows. Fire escape.
Nothing else.
He searched the map.
No building appeared at that location.
Satellite imagery showed an empty lot.
Elias stared at his phone.
The train continued.
A notification appeared.
Image could not be saved.
He opened his gallery.
The photograph was gone.
Elias slowly lowered the phone.
Across from him, a little girl was staring.
He looked at her.
She immediately turned away while her mother whispered something to her.
Elias sat down.
The rest of the journey passed without incident.
His apartment was dark when he arrived.
That was normal.
He locked the door, placed his keys in the ceramic bowl beside the entrance, removed his coat and shoes, and dropped his bag beside the couch.
Everything was where it belonged.
He stood quietly in the living room. The refrigerator hummed, and rain ticked against the windows. Only then did Elias realize he had been holding his breath.
He exhaled.
"This is stupid."
Saying it aloud helped.
Slightly.
He ordered food and watched television. A game show contestant won nineteen thousand dollars while Elias ate noodles directly from the container.
At 9:43, Marcus sent him a message.
You alive?
Elias replied.
Unfortunately.
Three dots appeared.
You were weird today.
Elias stared at the message.
Bad sleep.
Take tomorrow off. Long weekend.
Maybe.
Seriously.
Elias didn't answer.
At 10:16, he brushed his teeth.
At 10:22, he entered the bedroom.
And stopped.
There was a photograph beside his bed.
Elias stared at it.
A wooden frame. Dark brown. Nothing expensive.
He did not own it.
Inside was a photograph of two people.
One of them was Elias.
The other was a woman.
He didn't know her.
For several seconds, his mind simply refused to process the image. He approached slowly and picked it up.
The photograph showed Elias standing on a beach. He wore a white shirt and rolled-up jeans, his arm wrapped around the woman's waist. She had dark blond hair and freckles across her cheeks. She was laughing, and Elias was smiling.
Not the polite smile he used for office photographs. Not the half-smile he gave when someone pointed a camera toward him.
A real smile.
Wide.
Happy.
He looked younger, perhaps twenty-five. The woman's head rested against his shoulder.
Elias turned the frame over.
There was handwriting on the back in blue ink.
Elias & Hannah
Five years together.
August 14th
His mouth went dry.
"Hannah?"
The name felt strange.
And familiar.
No.
Not familiar.
It merely sounded like it should be.
Elias sat on the edge of the bed and looked again. The photograph was convincing. He recognized the shirt. He still owned it. There was a small scar near his left wrist.
Visible.
His face.
His body.
Him.
But the woman—
Nothing.
He put the photograph down and picked up his phone.
Then he opened his gallery.
Scrolled.
Stopped.
There she was.
Elias froze.
Hannah.
Hundreds of photographs.
Elias and Hannah eating dinner. Hannah sleeping on his couch. Hannah wearing his coat. Hannah holding Pickles while Mrs. Palmer smiled beside her. Hannah sitting across from Marcus at a bar. Hannah beneath a Christmas tree. Hannah standing in Elias's kitchen. Hannah kissing his cheek.
Photograph after photograph.
Year after year.
Elias's hand began to shake.
"No."
He opened his contacts.
Hannah
Elias nearly dropped the phone.
He opened the contact.
A number. Address. Birthday. Email.
Everything.
Messages.
Thousands.
He opened the conversation.
HANNAH: Don't forget milk.
ELIAS: I forgot milk.
HANNAH: I sent that 4 minutes ago.
ELIAS: I panicked.
Another.
HANNAH: Your mother asked if we're coming Sunday.
ELIAS: Tell her yes.
HANNAH: You tell her.
ELIAS: She likes you more.
HANNAH: Understandable.
Another.
HANNAH: Love you.
ELIAS: Love you too.
Elias dropped the phone onto the bed and walked into the living room.
There were photographs there too.
He hadn't noticed them before.
One sat on the bookshelf. Him and Hannah.
Another rested near the television. Hannah alone.
A blue sweater hung over the back of the couch. There were women's shoes near the entrance, a second toothbrush in the bathroom, shampoo he had never purchased, a hairbrush beside the sink, a bottle of perfume, earrings, and clothing.
Evidence of another human being everywhere.
Elias backed into the wall.
"No."
His phone rang.
He looked toward the bedroom.
It continued.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
He approached.
The screen displayed:
MOM
Elias answered.
"Hello?"
"Elias?"
His mother sounded concerned.
"Mom."
"What's wrong?"
He closed his eyes.
"Do you know someone named Hannah?"
Silence.
Then, "What?"
"Hannah."
More silence.
"Elias, what are you talking about?"
His heart began pounding.
"You know her?"
"Of course I know her."
He sat down.
"Who is she?"
"Elias."
"Tell me."
His mother's voice changed, becoming careful.
"Hannah is your girlfriend."
Elias stared at the floor.
"For how long?"
"What?"
"How long?"
"Five years."
His fingers tightened around the phone.
"Where is she?"
"Is this a joke?"
"Mom."
"I don't know. With you, I assumed."
"She's not here."
"Then call her."
"I don't know her."
Nothing came from the other end.
Elias heard his mother breathe once, then twice.
"Elias."
"I have never met this woman."
"Stop."
"I'm serious."
"You're scaring me."
"I'm scared."
He stood again and walked toward the living room. The blue sweater waited on the couch.
"Mom, I don't remember her."
Another pause.
"Did you hit your head?"
"No."
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"Have you been drinking?"
"No."
"Drugs?"
"Mom."
"I'm asking."
"I don't remember her."
His mother's breathing grew faster.
"I'm coming over."
"No."
"I'm coming over."
"Mom, wait."
She hung up.
Elias immediately called Marcus.
Marcus answered after the fourth ring.
"What happened?"
"Who's Hannah?"
Marcus was silent.
Elias closed his eyes.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pause."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Who's Hannah?"
"Your girlfriend."
"How long have I known her?"
Marcus laughed uncertainly. "What?"
"How long?"
"Years."
"How many?"
"I don't know. Five?"
Elias covered his mouth.
Marcus stopped laughing.
"Eli?"
"I don't remember her."
"What?"
"I don't remember Hannah."
"Okay."
"Don't say okay."
"I'm trying to understand."
"There is a woman who apparently lives in my apartment, who I have apparently been dating for five years, and I have no idea who she is."
"Where's Hannah?"
"I don't know."
"Call her."
Elias looked at the contact. "I can't."
"Why?"
"I don't know what I'm supposed to say."
Marcus was quiet.
Then, "I'm coming over."
"My mother already is."
"Good."
"I think I'm losing my mind."
"You're not."
"How would you know?"
"I don't."
That was somehow worse.
Elias sat on the couch and stared at the sweater beside him. It was blue, soft wool, with a small tear near one sleeve. He picked it up and brought it closer. Perfume.
The same scent as the bottle in the bathroom.
Something about the smell hurt.
Not because he remembered it.
Because he didn't.
His body reacted before his mind did. His chest tightened. His eyes watered. Some buried part of him recognized something his conscious mind could not.
Elias pressed the sweater against his face.
Nothing.
No memory.
Nothing.
"Who are you?"
He whispered it.
The apartment did not answer.
His phone vibrated.
A message.
From Hannah.
Elias almost screamed.
He stared at the screen.
HANNAH: Almost home. Need anything?
Elias didn't move.
Another message appeared.
HANNAH: Eli?
He stood and looked toward the front door.
His pulse hammered against his throat.
The lock clicked.
Elias stumbled backward.
The door opened, and a woman entered.
Dark blond hair. Freckles. Black coat damp with rain.
The woman from the photographs.
Hannah.
She stepped inside, closed the door behind herself, then looked at Elias. Her expression immediately changed.
"Hey."
Elias couldn't speak.
She put down her bag. "What's wrong?"
He stared at her.
Hannah smiled nervously. "Elias?"
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
She approached.
He stepped backward.
She stopped, and the smile vanished.
"Eli?"
"Don't."
Hannah looked hurt. "What?"
"Don't come closer."
She stared at him.
"What happened?"
"I don't know who you are."
Silence.
Rain whispered against the glass.
Hannah's face became completely still.
For a moment, Elias expected confusion, fear, anger, anything.
Instead, something else happened.
Her expression disappeared.
Not changed.
Disappeared.
As though every muscle in her face had simultaneously relaxed.
She looked at Elias without blinking.
"Elias."
Her voice sounded different.
Flat.
"Who are you?"
Hannah remained motionless.
Then she smiled.
Too slowly.
Elias's blood turned cold.
"You know me."
"No."
"You do."
"No."
"You've always known me."
"I haven't."
"You love me."
Elias backed away.
Hannah took one step forward.
"You love me."
"Stop saying that."
"You love me."
"Hannah—"
"You love me."
Her voice had not changed.
Same volume.
Same tone.
"You love me."
Elias reached the kitchen, his hand searching blindly behind him for the counter, a drawer, something, anything.
Hannah stopped.
Tilted her head.
And blinked.
Once.
Her expression returned.
Tears immediately filled her eyes.
"What—"
She looked around.
"Why am I..."
Her breathing accelerated.
"Elias?"
He stared.
Hannah touched her forehead.
"I..."
Then her nose began bleeding.
A thin red line.
She wiped it and looked at the blood.
Her knees buckled.
"Hannah!"
Elias caught her before she hit the floor.
She was unconscious.
His phone was already in his hand.
Emergency services.
He barely remembered dialing.
The hospital called it syncope.
Stress. Dehydration. Potential exhaustion.
Nothing neurological appeared wrong. No seizure activity. No head trauma. No abnormal bloodwork.
Hannah slept while Elias sat beside the hospital bed. His mother sat across from him, and Marcus stood near the window.
Nobody knew what to say.
At some point, his mother showed Elias photographs. Birthdays. Christmas. Family dinners.
Hannah everywhere.
Five years.
Five years of a person erased from his memory.
Doctors examined Elias as well. They asked him his name, the date, his address, the president, his mother's maiden name, his first school, and his childhood pet.
Everything was correct.
Everything except Hannah.
Selective retrograde amnesia, one doctor suggested. Possibly triggered by stress. Rare, but possible.
They recommended additional evaluation.
Elias listened, nodded, and accepted every explanation.
Because the alternative had no name.
At 3:12 in the morning, Hannah woke.
Elias was alone with her.
She opened her eyes, looked around, then turned toward him.
"Eli?"
He swallowed. "Yeah."
She smiled weakly. "You look terrible."
He almost laughed.
Instead, his eyes burned.
"I'm sorry."
Hannah watched him.
"You really don't remember me?"
Elias shook his head.
Tears slid down his face before he realized he was crying.
"No."
Hannah looked toward the ceiling.
"That's..."
She breathed out.
"That's really messed up."
Elias laughed.
A broken sound.
"Yeah."
She turned back toward him. "What do you remember?"
"Everything else."
"Our first date?"
"No."
"Paris?"
"No."
"We never went to Paris."
Elias stared.
Hannah smiled slightly. "Just checking."
He laughed again.
This time, she did too.
For several minutes, somehow, the world felt normal.
Strange.
Terrifying.
But normal.
A medical problem. An accident of biology. A malfunctioning brain.
Something understandable.
Something human.
Hannah reached toward him.
Elias hesitated, then took her hand.
His body recognized it.
That terrified him more than anything else.
Her fingers fit between his. Familiar. His thumb automatically brushed across her knuckles, a gesture performed hundreds of times.
His mind had forgotten.
His body had not.
Hannah noticed.
She smiled.
"See?"
Elias looked down at their hands. "Maybe it'll come back."
"Maybe."
"We'll figure it out."
Elias nodded.
"We'll figure it out."
Hannah squeezed his hand.
He remained beside her until sunrise.
Elias woke at 7:03 in the morning.
The alarm clock screamed beside him.
He sat upright.
Bedroom.
Home.
Sunlight through the curtains.
His heart hammered.
Hospital.
Hannah.
He looked beside himself.
Empty.
"Hannah?"
No answer.
He climbed out of bed and searched the apartment.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Bathroom.
Nothing.
Then he returned to the bedroom.
The photograph was gone.
Elias stopped.
The bedside table was empty.
He searched the drawers.
Nothing.
In the living room, the photographs were gone. So was the blue sweater. The shoes had disappeared. In the bathroom, there was only one toothbrush and one shampoo bottle.
No perfume.
No hairbrush.
No earrings.
Nothing.
Elias ran toward his phone.
He opened the gallery and scrolled.
No Hannah.
Five years of photographs had vanished.
Contacts.
No Hannah.
Messages.
Nothing.
His hands began shaking violently.
"No."
He searched the apartment again. Closet, drawers, laundry, cabinets.
Nothing.
Not a single object belonging to her remained.
Elias called his mother.
She answered quickly.
"Morning."
"Where's Hannah?"
Pause.
"Hannah who?"
The room tilted.
"Mom."
"What?"
"Hannah."
"I don't know a Hannah."
Elias lowered himself onto the bed.
"You were at the hospital."
"What hospital?"
"Last night."
His mother laughed. "Elias, I was home last night."
"No."
"Yes."
"You came to the hospital."
"Honey, are you feeling okay?"
He hung up.
Then he called Marcus.
Ring.
Ring.
"What's up?"
"Tell me who Hannah is."
Marcus sighed. "Is this another one of your weird jokes?"
Elias stopped breathing.
"You don't remember her."
"Remember who?"
"Hannah."
"No."
"My girlfriend."
Marcus laughed.
"You don't have a girlfriend."
Elias closed his eyes.
"Five years."
"What?"
"We were together five years."
"Eli..."
"You met her."
"I think I'd remember you having a girlfriend for five years."
Elias looked toward the place where the photograph had been.
Empty.
Perfectly empty.
"Yeah."
"Are you okay?"
Elias didn't answer.
"Eli?"
He ended the call.
For a long time, he sat on the bed.
The alarm clock read 7:18.
The crack in the ceiling remained.
Outside, cars moved through the intersection. Someone leaned on a horn. A dog barked.
The world continued.
Ordinary.
Indifferent.
Elias slowly stood and walked toward the window.
Mrs. Palmer was crossing the street with Pickles.
Mr. Alvarez stood outside smoking.
The coffee shop downstairs had twelve people inside.
Everything was where it belonged.
Almost.
Elias looked toward the ceramic bowl near the entrance. His keys were inside, alongside his wallet and a few loose coins.
And something else.
Small.
Silver.
He approached.
A key.
Not his apartment key.
Not his office key.
He picked it up.
Attached to it was a small plastic tag.
Written in faded blue ink:
H
Elias stared at it.
His eyes filled.
He closed his fist around the key.
Something had happened.
Someone had existed.
He knew that much.
Even if no one else did. Even if the photographs were gone. Even if the messages were gone. Even if the entire world insisted otherwise.
Hannah had been real.
Elias stood alone in the apartment.
Then, somewhere behind him, a floorboard creaked.
He turned.
Nothing.
The hallway was empty.
He waited.
Silence.
Elias slowly looked toward the bedroom.
For less than a second, there was someone standing inside.
A person.
Tall.
Motionless.
Watching him.
Elias blinked.
The bedroom was empty.
His breathing stopped.
He stepped forward.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
He entered the room.
Empty.
Closet closed.
Window locked.
No one beneath the bed.
He laughed nervously.
His own voice sounded foreign.
Then he noticed something on the wall above his bed.
Words.
Very faint.
Almost invisible against the white paint.
Elias moved closer.
They looked like pencil marks.
No.
Not pencil.
Indentations.
As though someone had written the words without ink.
He touched them, tracing the shallow grooves with his fingertips.
Three words.
NOT YET, ELIAS.
He stumbled backward.
The room became silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
There was a difference.
The traffic outside disappeared. The refrigerator stopped humming. The pipes fell silent. No footsteps came from upstairs. No dogs barked. No rain struck the windows.
Nothing.
Elias stared at the words.
Then something scratched above him.
He looked toward the ceiling.
Scratch.
Slow.
Dragging.
The sound moved from one end of the room to the other.
Something was on the other side.
Elias stepped backward.
Another scratch followed.
Then the ceiling bulged downward, only slightly, as though something enormous had placed its weight against it from somewhere that should not exist.
Elias couldn't move.
The bulge traveled across the ceiling toward him and stopped directly overhead.
He stared upward.
His mouth trembled.
Then came three knocks from above the ceiling.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The lights went out.
Elias screamed.
And the world returned.
Cars. Rain. Refrigerator. Dog.
Everything.
The lights flickered back on.
The ceiling was normal.
The words above his bed were gone.
Elias stood in the center of the room, alone.
His fist remained clenched.
Slowly, painfully, he opened it.
The silver key was still there.
The blue tag rested against his palm.
H
Something was wrong with the world.
Elias did not know what.
He did not know why.
He only knew one thing.
For the first time in his life, he felt watched.
Not by someone standing outside his window. Not by someone hiding inside his apartment.
It was stranger than that.
Larger.
He felt as though something existed somewhere he could not look.
Somewhere beyond walls.
Beyond streets.
Beyond the sky itself.
And whatever it was—
it had noticed him.
Elias closed his hand around Hannah's key.
Far beyond anything he could see, something changed.
A sentence ended.
Another began.
And Elias Mercer went to work, because that was what Elias Mercer was supposed to do.