At a rest stop, she pulled over and killed the engine. Silence bloomed again, familiar as an old song. The quiet wasn’t frightening anymore. It was almost tender, as though the world itself had paused to watch what she would do next.
She got out, stretched her legs, and walked toward a line of trees behind the parking lot. A small cemetery lay beyond the fence, its stones half-buried under moss and fallen leaves. The gate hung open. She hesitated at the threshold, then stepped inside.
The ground was soft from rain. Water pooled in the depressions where names had worn away. She walked slowly between the graves, reading what she could. Beloved father. Dear wife. Gone too soon. Words written for the living more than for the dead.
Near the back, she found a stone newer than the rest. It was plain, unpolished. The name carved into it stopped her heart. GITHINJI — 1970–1996. She read it twice, then again, unable to make the numbers behave.
1996. 30 years ago.
Her hands trembled as she brushed away the wet leaves. The date was clear, the engraving deep. She crouched down, pressing her fingers against the cold stone. “No,” she whispered. “No, you can’t—” The wind lifted, carrying the faintest echo of his voice: You wrote every word.
Her mind reeled. Memories flickered—the first time he disappeared, the endless silences, the notes that appeared in her handwriting. Had she been speaking to a ghost all along? Or to the part of herself that refused to let him die?
She staggered back, gasping. The world tilted. A deep ringing filled her ears, and for a moment, she thought she saw him standing beyond the trees—still in the same rain-soaked clothes, his head slightly tilted, his eyes soft with the kind of pity that hurts more than anger.
“You’re not real,” she said, though the words came out as a plea. He smiled. “You made me real.” She turned and ran. Branches tore at her sleeves. When she reached the car, she slammed the door and locked it, trembling so hard she could barely start the engine. The graveyard faded in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the mist.
The next town was small, almost forgotten—a handful of buildings clustered around a main street. She found a motel with a vacancy sign buzzing red and pulled in. The clerk didn’t look up from his newspaper when she checked in. He handed her a key, muttered a room number, and returned to reading.
Room 7 smelled of bleach and rain. A single bulb hung above the bed. She dropped her suitcase by the door and sat on the mattress. Her hands were still shaking. She needed to write, to make sense of the madness. She found an old notepad by the phone and began scribbling: If he’s dead, who have I been speaking to? If I’m mad, why can I still hear him breathing when I close my eyes? The pen faltered. The page blurred. She turned on the TV for noise, but the static filled the room instead—a hiss like whispering. She shut it off.
In the reflection of the dark screen, Ken was sitting on the edge of the bed. She didn’t scream this time. She was too tired. “Why here?” she asked softly. He smiled. “You brought me.” “I came to forget you.” “You came to finish us.”
She got out, stretched her legs, and walked toward a line of trees behind the parking lot. A small cemetery lay beyond the fence, its stones half-buried under moss and fallen leaves. The gate hung open. She hesitated at the threshold, then stepped inside.
The ground was soft from rain. Water pooled in the depressions where names had worn away. She walked slowly between the graves, reading what she could. Beloved father. Dear wife. Gone too soon. Words written for the living more than for the dead.
Near the back, she found a stone newer than the rest. It was plain, unpolished. The name carved into it stopped her heart. GITHINJI — 1970–1996. She read it twice, then again, unable to make the numbers behave.
1996. 30 years ago.
Her hands trembled as she brushed away the wet leaves. The date was clear, the engraving deep. She crouched down, pressing her fingers against the cold stone. “No,” she whispered. “No, you can’t—” The wind lifted, carrying the faintest echo of his voice: You wrote every word.
Her mind reeled. Memories flickered—the first time he disappeared, the endless silences, the notes that appeared in her handwriting. Had she been speaking to a ghost all along? Or to the part of herself that refused to let him die?
She staggered back, gasping. The world tilted. A deep ringing filled her ears, and for a moment, she thought she saw him standing beyond the trees—still in the same rain-soaked clothes, his head slightly tilted, his eyes soft with the kind of pity that hurts more than anger.
“You’re not real,” she said, though the words came out as a plea. He smiled. “You made me real.” She turned and ran. Branches tore at her sleeves. When she reached the car, she slammed the door and locked it, trembling so hard she could barely start the engine. The graveyard faded in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the mist.
The next town was small, almost forgotten—a handful of buildings clustered around a main street. She found a motel with a vacancy sign buzzing red and pulled in. The clerk didn’t look up from his newspaper when she checked in. He handed her a key, muttered a room number, and returned to reading.
Room 7 smelled of bleach and rain. A single bulb hung above the bed. She dropped her suitcase by the door and sat on the mattress. Her hands were still shaking. She needed to write, to make sense of the madness. She found an old notepad by the phone and began scribbling: If he’s dead, who have I been speaking to? If I’m mad, why can I still hear him breathing when I close my eyes? The pen faltered. The page blurred. She turned on the TV for noise, but the static filled the room instead—a hiss like whispering. She shut it off.
In the reflection of the dark screen, Ken was sitting on the edge of the bed. She didn’t scream this time. She was too tired. “Why here?” she asked softly. He smiled. “You brought me.” “I came to forget you.” “You came to finish us.”
