Lina kept the photo strip folded in her back pocket like a secret she wasn't ready to admit.It made the day feel heavier.Made everything softer around the edges, like reality was slightly out of focus.
She worked the night shift in silence. No earbuds. No background hum. Just the sound of the cooler fan and the occasional flicker of the overhead lights.The aisles looked longer tonight.Stretched.
She kept checking the security screens. Not because she expected to see him.Because she expected not to.
At 1:36 AM, the front door opened.
No chime.Just a breath of wind that didn't come from outside.
A woman entered.Older. Maybe fifty. Clean coat. No purchase. No glance toward the shelves.
Just walked up to the counter, stopped, and smiled.
"Do you still have it?" the woman asked.
Lina blinked. "I— Sorry?"
The woman tilted her head, kind but unreadable. "The thing you dropped. He said you might forget."
Lina didn't know what to say. Her hands went to her pockets instinctively, touching the photo, the note.Too many things she didn't remember dropping.
The woman's smile didn't change. "Well. If it comes back to you, just… don't let it fall again."
She turned. Left.
No receipt. No footsteps on the camera.
Just gone.
At 2:02 AM, Lina checked behind the counter.On the floor, beneath the register, something rested where it hadn't before.
A ring. Simple. Dull silver. No stone.
She didn't wear rings.
Didn't own one like this.
But her fingers remembered the weight.
She slid it on.
It fit.
At 3:00 AM, the cooler lights dimmed.Just for a moment.Long enough to blink.Long enough to forget what the shelves had looked like before.
She closed the store early.No real reason.
Just a feeling.
Back at the apartment, the lights flicked on like they'd been waiting.
The couch still held the shape of her absence.The kettle was warm.Steam curled from a mug she hadn't filled.
Inside it: a teabag with no label.
Same kind.
No brand.
No scent.
She sipped it anyway.
It tasted like memory.Like something someone else had tasted first.
On the windowsill: a folded piece of paper.
Not hidden. Just placed.As if it belonged there.
She unfolded it slowly.
Inside: a single sentence.
"Not everything you forget is lost."
Her phone buzzed once.
6:03 AM.
No name.
No number.
Just an image.
Her, from above.Sitting on the park bench.Same hoodie. Same folded hands. Same expression.
The photo was time-stamped.
Two days before the first time she met him.
Lina stared at the photo on her screen longer than she should've.
The timestamp didn't make sense.Not just because it came from before she met him—But because she remembered that morning.
She remembered being late for her shift.Dropping her keys.Eating half a granola bar on the walk.She didn't remember sitting on a park bench with her hands folded and a stranger watching from somewhere above.
Unless she hadn't been alone.
Unless she hadn't noticed.
She shut the phone off.Put it facedown on the table.Didn't move.
The ring on her finger felt heavier than it had at the store.Like wearing it pulled at some part of her she'd forgotten how to access.
She turned her head slowly toward the hallway mirror.Half her reflection was swallowed in shadow.But the other half—
Wasn't quite hers.
The face was familiar, yes.But her own expression didn't feel like something she'd just made.It felt borrowed. Like it had already been used.
She stood up too fast, heart kicking in her chest like a locked drawer forced open.
The ring glinted faintly.
The lights in the hall flickered once.Then again.
From the coat rack, something dropped.She turned.
A key.
Not her apartment key.Not the spare.
Thinner. Older. Worn.
Attached to a thin leather cord with a tag.
No number. No name.
Just a drawn symbol.
A circle with a single line through it.
She didn't recognize it.
But her hand reached for the key before her thoughts caught up.
And that scared her more than the object itself.
She didn't want to go outside.
So she didn't.
She opened the fridge instead.
Something new sat inside.
A takeout container she hadn't bought.No logo.No tape.
Inside: sliced fruit.
Pale mango, apple, green melon.
On top: a note.
Not written. Typed.
On a scrap of receipt paper.
"You liked this once."
She sat at the kitchen table and stared at the food.
It wasn't threatening.It wasn't familiar either.
It was something between.
She picked up a slice of melon and ate it slowly.
It tasted like summer.And a name she couldn't say.And a street she couldn't locate.
Her phone buzzed again.
No message.
Just the lock screen lighting up on its own.
The folders were renamed again.
Routine → RewindOther → EchoEcho → Her
She didn't touch them.
Not yet.
She went to the closet.
Pulled out the old hoodie.
Same one she'd worn in the video.In the park photo.The one he always saw her in.
There was something in the front pocket.
She reached in.
Her fingers found paper.
Two layers.Folded together.
One was blank.The other held three words, scrawled in soft pencil.
"You asked me."
No punctuation.Just those words.
She sat on the floor.Back to the wall.Hands resting in her lap.
The paper in her left.The key in her right.
The ring on her finger.
Her phone lit up again.No sound.Just a single word:
"Ready?"
She didn't know.
But she whispered anyway.
"Yes."
The word on the screen disappeared.Not replaced.Just gone.
Like it had only needed to be seen once.
Lina sat still for a long time.Long enough for the light outside to shift again—blue to gray, like memory changing tone.
She didn't move until the silence changed.
Not louder.Not broken.Just... curved differently.
As if the apartment itself had turned slightly, just a fraction, and she hadn't followed.
She walked to the hallway again.Passed the mirror.
This time, she didn't look.
She opened the drawer near the entry.
Found her old notebooks.Pages she hadn't read in years.
And tucked inside one—a folded page she didn't recognize in her handwriting.
At the top: her name.
Then a sentence.
"If you're reading this, it means he kept his promise."
No date.
No context.
But something deep in her ribs loosened.Not comfort.
Something older.Like grief catching its breath.
She looked at the page.
And whispered again.
"…What did I ask you to remember for me?"