He didn't remember leaving the church.
One moment he was standing alone between the benches, heart hammering, breath shallow—
the next, he was outside, rain soaking through his clothes, the heavy doors shut behind him.
Locked.
He pulled once.
Twice.
The doors didn't move.
His chest tightened.
That wasn't possible.
He staggered back, rain blurring his vision, lightning tearing open the sky above. The church stood quiet behind him—solid, ordinary, innocent.
As if no one else had been there.
As if nothing had happened.
"No," he muttered. "No, no, no."
He turned and walked—then jogged—then ran.
His apartment felt wrong the moment he stepped inside.
Not broken into.
Not messy.
Just… disturbed.
The lights were off, exactly how he'd left them. His shoes sat neatly by the door. The silence inside was thick, expectant.
He flicked the switch.
Light flooded the room.
And froze him in place.
The ultrasound photo lay on the table.
Centered. Straightened.
He hadn't touched it in weeks.
His mouth went dry.
Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. The photo was clean, untouched by dust. Beneath it lay something else.
A folded piece of paper.
Hands shaking, he picked it up and opened it.
Only four words were written on it.
YOU'RE NOT ALONE NOW.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
"That's not possible," he whispered.
He backed away, scanning the room. Every shadow felt taller. Every corner felt occupied.
He moved toward the bedroom.
The door was open.
It hadn't been.
The room smelled faintly of lavender.
His stomach twisted.
Her scent.
"Lena?" he called before he could stop himself.
Silence answered.
The wardrobe door creaked.
His breath hitched.
He stood there, rooted to the floor, listening to the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.
Then he noticed the bed.
The pillow on her side was indented.
Fresh.
He staggered back.
"No… no…"
He rushed forward and pressed his hand into the mattress.
Still warm.
Something cold slid down his spine.
"You're grieving," he said aloud. "You're tired. This isn't real."
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He nearly dropped it pulling it out.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
The screen glowed too bright in the dim room.
He hesitated—then answered.
"Hello?"
Static crackled on the line.
Then breathing.
Slow. Calm. Familiar.
"You didn't walk away," the voice said.
His knees weakened.
"You said you'd leave me alone."
"I said I'd be watching," the stranger replied gently. "There's a difference."
"Get out of my head," he snapped.
A soft chuckle.
"If I were in your head," the man said, "you wouldn't be this afraid."
His jaw tightened. "What do you want?"
A pause.
Then—
"I want you to stop pretending this is faith," the stranger said. "Faith doesn't feel like abandonment."
His chest burned.
"Then what is it?"
Silence stretched.
Longer this time.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Then the voice returned, lower.
"This," the man said, "is the moment before you choose."
"Choose what?"
"Whether heaven is silent," the stranger replied, "or whether you've been listening to the wrong voice all along."
The call ended.
The phone went dead in his hand.
The room fell quiet again.
But the silence was no longer empty.
It was crowded.
And somewhere in the apartment, something shifted.