The Apartment Remembers First
I opened the hall closet by accident.
That's what I told myself.
Inside, shoes were lined neatly at the bottom.
My size.
Worn at the heels.
Loved.
A faint smell rose from them—my perfume.
I hadn't owned that scent in years.
I stepped back, heart racing.
Slowly, I checked the wardrobe in the bedroom.
Clothes filled it.Not random.Curated.
Soft sweaters in colors I favored. Dresses I would never wear now—but might have before.
One hanger was empty.
As if something had been removed recently.
My fingers brushed the fabric of a coat near the back.
Something slipped from the pocket and hit the floor.
A receipt.
Dated three years ago.
Same address.
Same building.
Same apartment number.
My knees weakened.
I hadn't moved in.
I had returned.
The mirror caught my reflection.
Pale.Wide-eyed.Familiar in a way that made my skin crawl.
"I don't remember you," I whispered to the girl staring back.
My phone vibrated.
You never did at first.
Tears burned unexpectedly.
Why keep my things?
The response came slower this time.
Because you said losing them would make you disappear.