"Did you lock the door, Clara?"

I didn’t turn around. My back was pressed against the cold glass of the window, watching the rain blur the streetlights into long, weeping streaks of amber. The apartment was small. It was always small. In London, the rooms had been this size, too, but there the walls felt like a hug. Here, in this cramped flat in Chicago, they felt like a cage. The air smelled of damp wool and the faint, metallic tang of fear.

"Clara?"

My husband’s voice. Deep. Steady. The voice that had once made me feel like I was floating in a sea of warm water. Now it sounded like gravel shifting under a boot.

"I locked it, Thomas," I said. My voice was thin. A reed in a gale. "I always lock it."

"You’re sure?"

"Positive."

A silence stretched between us. It was a heavy thing, thick with unspoken accusations. I could feel his eyes on the back of my head. I could feel the weight of his suspicion pressing down on my shoulders, heavier than the rain, heavier than the city outside.

"Good," he said. "Because I’m going to check."

He moved. I heard the creak of the chair. The shuffle of his shoes on the hardwood floor. I didn’t turn. I kept my eyes fixed on the glass. In the reflection, I saw him. He stood behind me, a dark shape against the lighter wall. He looked like a stranger. His face was tight, his jaw clenched. He looked at me, and I looked at him, and for a second, we were two ghosts haunting the same room.

He walked to the door. The lock clicked. The handle turned. He opened it a crack.

"Nothing," he said. "I’m sorry, Clara. I’m just... I’m not sleeping well."

"Neither am I, Thomas."

He closed the door. The click of the latch was loud in the quiet room.

I turned around. He was standing in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets. He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, dark circles that looked like bruises.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

He smiled. It was a small, fragile thing. A crack in the plaster.

"I don’t know," he said. "I feel... watched."

"By who?"

"By myself," he said. "Or maybe by you. I don’t know anymore."

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to tell him he was crazy. But I didn’t. Because I felt it too. The sense of being watched. The feeling that something was wrong. That the air in the room was too thick. That the walls were listening.

"Thomas," I said. "Let’s go to bed."

"No," he said. "Not yet. I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About the package."

My stomach dropped. "What package?"

"The one that came yesterday. The one you signed for."

"I didn’t sign for anything."

"You did. I saw the signature. It was your name. Clara."

"No, Thomas. It wasn’t. I wasn’t home. I was at the hospital. With my mother."

"Your mother has been dead for three years, Clara."

The words hit me like a slap. I staggered back. My hand went to my chest. My heart was pounding. A wild, frantic bird beating against its cage.

"You... you knew?" I whispered.

"I knew," he said. "I’ve known for a long time. I just... I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I was afraid."

"Affraid of what?"

"Of you. Of what you’ve become."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. And I saw it. The fear in his eyes. The hatred. The cold, hard stone of it.

"I am not what you think I am," I said.

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Open the box."

I didn’t move. I stood there, frozen. The rain lashed against the window. The streetlights flickered. The room was spinning.

"Thomas," I said. "Please."

"No."

He stepped toward me. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He looked like a man possessed.

"Open the box, Clara."

I looked at the door. It was closed. I looked at the window. It was locked. I was trapped.

I walked to the table. The box was there. Brown cardboard. Plain. No return address. No sender. Just my name, written in black marker. My name. But not my handwriting.

I looked at Thomas. He was watching me. His eyes were hard. Unforgiving.

"Open it," he said.

I reached for the tape. My fingers were shaking. I tore the tape. I opened the box.

Inside, there was a letter. A single envelope. White. Plain.

I picked it up. My hands were trembling so badly I could barely hold it.

"Read it," Thomas said.

I broke the seal. I unfolded the paper.

It was a note. Written in a shaky, childish hand.

*Dear Clara,*

*I’m sorry. I know you’re angry. I know you don’t trust me. I know you think I’m lying. But I’m not. I’m not the one who did it. It was him. It was always him. He’s the one who’s been watching us. He’s the one who’s been poisoning you. He’s the one who’s been making you sick. He’s the one who’s been making you lose your mind. I tried to tell you. I tried to warn you. But you wouldn’t listen. You were too in love with him. You were too blind. Now you’re awake. Now you see the truth. Now you know who the enemy is. Be careful. He’s everywhere. He’s in the walls. He’s in the air. He’s in your blood. Run. Run, Clara. Before it’s too late.*

*Love,*

*E.*

I looked up. Thomas was staring at me. His face was a mask. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

"Who is E?" I asked.

"I don’t know," he said.

"You’re lying."

"I’m not."

"You are."

"Prove it."

"I can’t."

"Then it’s just your word against mine."

"Yes."

"And you don’t believe me."

"No."

I looked at the letter. I looked at the signature. E. Eleanor. My sister. Dead. Gone. Buried.

"Eleanor is dead," I said.

"I know."

"Then who wrote this?"

"I don’t know."

"Then why are you so sure?"

"Because I know you, Clara. I know what you’re capable of. I know what you’ve done. I know what you’re hiding."

"I’m not hiding anything."

"You are. You’re hiding the truth. You’re hiding the fact that you’re not who you say you are. You’re hiding the fact that you’re not real."

The words hit me. They hit me hard. They hit me in the chest. In the gut. In the soul.

"Not real?" I whispered.

"No."

"I’m real."

"Are you?"

"Ask me anything."

"Who am I?"

"You’re my husband."

"No. Who am I?"

"You’re Thomas."

"No. Who am I?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know. I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know who I was.

"Open the box again," he said.

I looked at the box. It was empty. There was nothing inside. No letter. No note. Nothing.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Where is what?"

"The letter."

"I don’t know."

"I saw it. I read it."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"Then why is the box empty?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.

"Maybe it was a dream," he said.

"No."

"Maybe you’re losing your mind, Clara."

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I don’t know."

He stepped closer. His face was inches from mine. I could smell his breath. It smelled of coffee and fear.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked at him. I looked into his eyes. And I saw it. The truth. The terrible, awful truth.

He wasn’t Thomas.

He was a mirror.

He was me.

I was looking at myself.

I was looking at the woman I had become. The woman who was broken. The woman who was lost. The woman who was alone.

I screamed.

I screamed and I screamed and I screamed.

Thomas—no, the mirror—didn’t flinch. He just watched me. He watched me with cold, hard eyes.

"Stop it," he said.

"I can’t."

"You have to."

"Why?"

"Because if you don’t, you’ll lose everything."

"I’ve already lost everything."

"No. You haven’t. You still have me. You still have us. You still have a chance."

"Give me a reason to stay."

"Because you love me."

"I don’t know."

"You do."

"I don’t know."

"Then find out."

He walked away. He walked to the door. He opened it.

"Come with me," he said.

I didn’t move. I stood there, in the middle of the room. The rain was still falling. The streetlights were still flickering. The air was still thick.

"No," I said.

"Clara."

"No."

He looked at me. His face was sad. So sad.

"Okay," he said.

He closed the door. The click of the latch was loud.

I was alone.

I was truly alone.

I looked at the mirror. The glass was dark. I couldn’t see my face. I couldn’t see anything.

I reached for the window. I pushed the glass. It was locked. I pushed harder. It didn’t move.

I pushed until my hands bled. I pushed until my arms shook. I pushed until I couldn’t breathe.

The glass cracked.

A single line. Thin. White. Like a scar.

I looked at the crack. I looked at the street below. The rain was washing away the blood. The rain was washing away the truth.

I smiled.

It was a small smile. A sad smile. A brave smile.

I broke the window.

The glass fell. It shattered on the floor. It made a sound like shattering bones.

I climbed out. I hung on the edge of the window. My feet dangled over the alley. The rain hit my face. It was cold. It was clean.

I jumped.

I fell.

I didn’t look down. I didn’t look up. I just closed my eyes.

I felt the wind. I felt the air. I felt the freedom.

I landed.

I didn’t die.

I stood up. My legs were shaking. My body was bruised. My hands were bleeding.

But I was alive.

I was real.

I looked up. The sky was clear. The rain had stopped. The stars were out. They were bright. They were beautiful.

I walked away. I walked into the night. I walked into the unknown.

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t need to.

I was free.