Lucas sits there too long.
The phone feels heavy in his hand, screen dark. He notices the weight but not the next step. He doesn't unlock it. Doesn't put it away. Just holds it, like letting go would mean losing something he doesn't understand yet.
The house isn't loud enough to break the moment.
He stands.
He doesn't decide to stand. His body does. His legs carry him through familiar rooms without permission. He passes the living room, the kitchen, drops the keys where they always go, brushes the table without looking at it.
Everything stays where it should be.
That bothers him.
In the bedroom, he opens a drawer.
He isn't looking for anything specific. He never really has.
It's an old drawer. Things saved because they once felt too important to throw away, but not important enough to keep visible. Folded papers. Objects with no clear purpose. Remains of a time that never asked for a goodbye.
He moves a layer aside with two fingers.
The photograph appears.
Lucas recognizes himself instantly.
No delay. No effort.
He knows when it was taken. Not the date, but the moment. The body in the picture is lived-in, not invented. The clothes, the way he stands, the background—it all belongs to a real stretch of days.
He doesn't question that.
Beside him, there's a woman.
Very close.
Not someone who wandered into the frame by accident. Their bodies fit together. Her arm rests against his with an ease that comes from repetition. The touch is intimate without being showy, like a gesture repeated until it stopped feeling like a gesture at all.
Lucas holds his breath. Brief.
He doesn't recognize the woman.
It isn't confusion.
It isn't almost-memory.
It's nothing.
A clean space where something should be.
He flips the photo over, like the back might help. Nothing. No date. No name. No forgotten note.
He turns it back again.
Studies her face more carefully now. Looks for something that forces a reaction. A striking feature. A strong expression.
Nothing happens.
She isn't a stranger.
She isn't familiar.
She simply doesn't exist inside him.
Lucas grabs his phone.
The movement isn't rushed, but it isn't delayed either. He already knows what he's looking for before he opens the gallery.
Images load.
Photos of him in familiar places. Ordinary moments. Days that didn't ask to be recorded. He scrolls past them too quickly.
She appears.
In several.
Not centered. Not posing. She shows up like she always belonged there. In the background of a picture. Reflected in glass. Sitting beside him. Leaning on him. Laughing at something the photo didn't capture.
Her presence repeats.
Lucas slows his finger.
Recognition doesn't come.
Her face sparks nothing.
His body doesn't react.
The absence stays complete.
He swipes back one photo.
She disappears.
Lucas frowns before the thought forms. He swipes forward again.
The photo doesn't return.
He stops.
Opens another image where she's clearly there. Closes it. Opens it again.
The second time, she's gone.
The space beside him remains. The background, the framing—everything perfect. Like no one ever stood there.
His stomach tightens.
He scrolls faster now.
Some photos still show her.
Others don't.
No pattern.
No warning.
The dates stay correct.
The locations make sense.
Only she disappears.
Lucas grips the phone too hard.
He opens a photo where she's sharp and clear. Stares too long.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
Now it's just him.
No blur.
No glitch.
No sign of editing.
She's simply not there anymore.
Lucas scrolls the entire gallery down. Then back up. Repeats.
Nothing changes.
The images remain coherent, continuous, complete.
Without her.
He lowers the phone slowly.
The physical photo is still in his other hand.
Lucas looks.
She's still there.
Whole.
In the same place. The same way.
That doesn't calm him.
It scares him.
He sets the phone on the table and brings the photo closer to his face, like the gesture might protect it from whatever is happening.
He holds it too carefully.
The silence in the house changes weight.
It isn't just empty now.
It's active.
Something is removing.
Lucas swallows.
The question escapes before anything else can form.
Who is this woman?