Two years had passed since the accident. Two years since Emma buried her fiancé and her heart along with him. The world had gone gray. She worked, ate, slept—but never really lived.
And then, on a rainy Tuesday evening, her phone buzzed.
One new message.
Her breath caught when she saw the sender: Alex.
She stared at the screen, frozen. It wasn’t possible. She had deleted his number long ago, but she could never forget it.
The message was short, just two words:
I miss you.
Emma’s heart pounded so hard she thought it would break her ribs. Her fingers trembled as she typed back:
Who is this?
The reply came instantly.
You know who I am.
She dropped the phone as if it burned her. This couldn’t be real. Someone was playing a sick joke. But how did they know what Alex used to text her every night?
Her hands shook as she typed again.
This isn’t funny. Alex is dead.
Another ping.
Then why am I still waiting for you at our place?
Her vision blurred. “Our place” — the little lakeside café where they had spent every Sunday morning, sipping coffee, dreaming about their future. The café had been closed for years.
She grabbed her keys, heart racing. This was insane, reckless—but she had to know. The city lights blurred as she drove through the rain. Every memory screamed at her to turn back, but she couldn’t.
The café stood in darkness, boarded up, forgotten. But the parking lot… one car. Her heart nearly stopped.
She stepped out, rain soaking her hair, and pushed the creaking door open. Inside, dust and silence. Tables covered in white sheets. And then—her phone buzzed again.
I see you.
Emma spun around. Nothing. Her pulse roared in her ears. Another message lit up the screen:
Look behind you.
Slowly, she turned.
And dropped the phone.
