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“You’re fine,” I said under my breath. “You’re fine. It’s fine.”

I reached out with fingers that barely felt like mine and pushed the bathroom door open.

The light flicked on, revealing nothing but clean tile and my own reflection staring back at me. It was empty. Completely empty.

But the knot in my chest didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened.

Because the underwear I knew I’d left on the floor had been folded and set neatly on the toilet lid.

A thin gasp escaped me. I stumbled backward out of the bathroom, bumping into the nightstand as more panic surged through my limbs.

My attention snapped to the closet next, and the narrow white door was standing innocently closed like it hadn’t been watching the whole time.

A cold sweat slid down my spine.

Again, I didn’t want to move toward it, but my body lurched forward anyway. My hand shook as I grabbed the handle, the cool metal biting into my palm. I swallowed once, then wrenched the door open in one frantic motion before I could talk myself out of it.

The closet was empty, though. There were only clothes swaying faintly on their hangers and the same patch of empty carpet I’d left behind that morning.

And just as the smallest breath of relief tried to break through me, the room phone rang.

I whipped around so fast my shoulder struck the doorframe. The shrill sound sliced through the silence, sending my pulse straight into my throat.

Hattie.

I darted across the room, tripping over my own feet in my rush to grab the receiver, half ready to sob into the line, ready to beg her to come to the room, to tell someone, anyone, what had just happened.

“Hattie?” I breathed as I pressed the phone to my ear.

It was quiet at first, static, like white noise from another room. Then, someone exhaled into the phone and then inhaled.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Steady, loud breaths that prickled across my skin.

“Hattie?” I tried again, softer this time, like volume might change the answer.

The breathing didn’t stop. It stayed there, filling the silence. Whoever it was made no attempt to talk or shift; they simply existed on the other end of the line, unmistakably present.

“Hello? Who is this?” I said, trying not to sound as terrified as I felt.

My fingers tightened around the receiver, a tremor running through my hand. I didn’t know if I should hang up or scream or run.

Without warning, the line went dead.

I set the phone down so fast it clattered against the cradle. My pulse hammered sickeningly as I stared down at it, wide-eyed, shivering, and very much not okay.

“It’s nothing,” I said out loud. “Robocall. Spam. A literal butt-dial. Maybe one of those weird AI telemarketers learning to breathe for the first time.”

Something cold and familiar was pooled in my stomach, a creeping mix of memory and fear I’d spent the last six months trying to bury.

It’s not him.