It happened in the stairwell.
Not in a dream.
Not in a mirror.
Not in my head.
In the most ordinary place possible.
I was halfway down the concrete steps of my apartment building, keys still in my hand, when I heard my name spoken in a voice that didn't belong to anyone I knew.
"Anshu Agrawal?"
I stopped.
The sound echoed slightly, swallowed by the narrow space. My heart thudded once—hard enough to hurt.
"Yes?" I answered, then immediately hated myself for responding.
A man stood on the landing below me.
Mid-thirties, maybe. Office clothes. ID badge clipped to his belt like he'd just come from work. He looked normal in the way that makes you lower your guard without realizing it.
He stared at me like he'd seen a ghost.
No.
Worse.
Like he'd seen one come back.
"You're—" he swallowed. "You're alive."
Something cold slid down my spine.
"I'm sorry?" I said.
His hands were shaking. He pressed them against the railing, breathing hard, like the stairwell had suddenly lost oxygen.
"That's not possible," he whispered. "I was there."
My mouth went dry.
"Where?"
The man laughed—a short, broken sound that didn't match his face. "This isn't funny. You died."
The words landed between us like shattered glass.
I felt them before I understood them.
"I think you've got the wrong person," I said automatically. "That happens sometimes."
"No," he said immediately. Too fast. Too sure. "I know your face."
He took a step closer.
"You were wearing a blue kurta. There was blood on the left side. You kept trying to say something but you couldn't finish the sentence."
My knees weakened.
That wasn't vague.
That wasn't guesswork.
That was memory.
"I held your hand," he said softly. "You were cold already."
The stairwell tilted.
I grabbed the railing to stay upright. "Stop," I whispered. "You need to stop talking."
He looked at me like he wanted to stop—but couldn't.
"They told me to forget," he continued, voice breaking. "They said it was a trauma response. That my brain filled in details because I'd been nearby."
He shook his head.
"But I didn't imagine you asking me to call someone."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Who?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His eyes met mine.
"You said, 'Please tell him I tried.'"
The air left my lungs.
I didn't know who him was.
But somewhere deep inside me, something tightened painfully—
like a name trying to surface and being pushed back down.
"I don't know you," I said hoarsely.
"I know," he replied. "But I knew you then."
He stepped back suddenly, like he'd crossed a line.
"This isn't supposed to be happening," he muttered. "She said the timeline was stable."
"She?" I echoed.
His eyes snapped up.
Too late.
Fear flooded his face.
"I shouldn't have said that."
The stairwell lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The pressure from the bathroom returned—the same intentional weight, the same sense of being observed.
The man's breathing grew erratic.
"Oh no," he whispered. "She's going to notice."
"Who?" I demanded.
But he wasn't listening anymore.
He backed away, hands up, eyes darting like the walls might move.
"You don't remember yet," he said quickly. "That's good. That means you still have time."
"Time for what?" I shouted.
"To run."
The lights went out.
Total darkness.
Someone screamed.
I don't know if it was me or him.
When the emergency lights flickered back on, the stairwell was empty.
No footsteps.
No open doors.
No man.
Just me—standing there with my heart trying to tear its way out of my chest.
I stumbled back up the stairs and locked myself inside my apartment, hands shaking so badly I dropped my keys twice.
Inside the bathroom, the mirror waited.
I didn't want to look.
I looked anyway.
My reflection stared back at me—pale, wide-eyed, breathing too fast.
"She noticed," I whispered.
The reflection nodded.
Then she spoke.
Out loud this time.
"They always do."
I pressed my palms to the sink.
"Who am I?" I asked.
The reflection's voice softened.
"You're the girl who died," she said gently.
"And lived long enough for the universe to regret it."
The lights went out again.
And this time—
They didn't come back on right away.