They say moving to a new city gives you a chance to start fresh. New job. New people. New room with cream-colored walls and a slightly broken fan that clicks every four seconds. I came to Arana City for that — a reset button. I left behind everything I wanted to forget. The late-night sirens. The stares. The pity. The courtroom. And her. But some things don’t stay buried, no matter how far you run.
The first week was quiet. I liked it that way. I worked, cooked, and slept in peace. Didn’t even unpack half my boxes. Felt good not needing to explain myself to anyone. The landlord, Mr. Bakshi, was kind, though too curious. He asked about my family. I lied. He asked if I’d lived in big cities before. I lied again. But I think he knew. The newspapers had reached even this place. Maybe he just didn’t want to push.
On a rainy Thursday night, the first thing happened. There was a note under my door. No envelope. No name. Just four words written in capital letters:
"YOU STILL SEE HER?"
I froze. My hands shook, but I didn’t understand why. It was just paper. But my chest tightened like it used to back then. I looked outside. No one. I checked with neighbors, but they hadn’t seen anyone. Maybe a prank, I told myself. Maybe some kid. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that.
I had seen her. Two days ago. In the metro. Standing between the crowd, her eyes locked with mine. The same eyes that stared at me the night she—
No. I can’t say that part. Not yet.
I tried throwing away the note, but it didn't feel like it was gone. Like it had already done its job — cracked open something inside me. That night, I kept hearing soft knocks on my door around 2:43 AM. Always the same time. Always just once. Not loud. Just enough to wake me. And when I’d check, there was nothing. No wind. No sound. Just silence so thick, it felt like the whole building had stopped breathing.
I started keeping a knife under my pillow, just in case. I knew how that sounded. But it made me sleep a little.
The second note came three days later. Folded, this time. Left neatly on my pillow. My front door was locked. Windows too. Still, somehow, the message found me again:
"THE PAST DOESN’T DIE. IT LEARNS TO FOLLOW."
I read it ten times. The handwriting was the same — thick strokes, sharp edges. It wasn’t hers. I was sure. But the words… they sounded like something she’d whisper.
That was the night I dreamt of her again. Same rooftop. Same rain. Her voice trembling, saying she didn’t mean to fall. That she wanted to hold on. And me… just standing there. Not reaching out. Just watching her fall.
I woke up screaming. Sweating. My throat dry like I’d swallowed dust. I didn’t sleep after that.
I started seeing her everywhere. Not clearly. But flashes. A reflection in the café window. A figure in my rearview mirror. Once, I swore I heard her laugh behind me in a bookstore. But when I turned around, it was just a boy and his mom, arguing over which comic to buy.
My mind started playing tricks. Or maybe it was just catching up to what I’d been running from.
I checked the apartment. Every drawer, every cupboard. Nothing. But something felt off. The mirror in my bedroom had a crack on the left edge. I never noticed it before. And when I looked in it, I swear — I saw her standing behind me for a second. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Just stood there.
I didn’t turn. I couldn’t.
I started hearing her name in whispers. From strangers. In crowds. Even in silence, it echoed. Anaya. Anaya. Anaya.
The third note came on a Friday.
It was in my fridge. Tucked between two eggs. How did it even get there?
"MOVE AGAIN. IT’LL STILL FIND YOU."
That broke me.
I left that night. Didn’t even pack. Just drove. The city lights behind me felt like eyes staring. I reached the old church outside the city — the one no one visits anymore. It was her favorite place. She said the silence inside made her feel less alone.
I sat there for hours. No plan. No purpose. Just guilt sitting heavy on my chest like a wet blanket. The benches were cold. The dust danced in the dim light from a cracked window.
Then I saw the old man.
He was sitting two rows ahead. Thin. Silent. But he turned slightly and said, without looking at me:
“You think it’s guilt following you?”
I didn’t answer.
He continued, “It’s not guilt, son. It’s truth. And truth has legs.”
And then he was gone. Just like that. I didn’t hear him get up. Didn’t hear the door open. But the bench was empty.
When I got back, my apartment wasn’t the same.
All the lights were on. The boxes I never unpacked were open. Clothes thrown out like someone was searching for something. Her photo — the one I burned a year ago — was pinned to my wall. Her eyes scratched out. There were candles lit in the corners of the room. I never lit them. I don’t even own candles.
And beneath her photo, the final note.
"THE CITY DIDN’T MATTER. YOU BROUGHT HER HERE."
I stared at it for hours.
It made sense now.
It wasn’t a ghost haunting me. It wasn’t her.
It was me. I had carried her with me. In my silence. In my lies. In the way I avoided mirrors. In the way I stopped answering calls from my mother. In the nightmares I told myself were just dreams.
Some people say healing is about moving on. I don’t think that’s true. I think healing is when you finally stop running.
I’m writing this now with trembling hands. I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow. I might move again. Or maybe I’ll stay and unpack all the boxes — not just in my apartment, but in my chest too.
But this time, I won’t pretend I’m starting fresh.
Because some luggage doesn’t need packing.
It travels with your soul.
React
