At Luis’s apartment, Elena had made tea and set out blankets without asking questions. Their little boy was asleep in the next room, one small sock abandoned in the hallway.
Normal life.
It nearly undid me.
I slept on their couch and woke before sunrise to the sound of my phone vibrating beneath the pillow.
A message from Adrian.
Your father’s name was Patrick Callahan.
I sat up slowly.
Another message appeared.
He died in a warehouse fire on South Halsted, October 18, eight years ago.
My hand went cold.
A third message.
My brother Daniel was declared dead the same night.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Eight years ago.
South Halsted.
The fire that killed my father had been ruled accidental. Faulty wiring, old building, bad luck. The kind of tragedy people explain in simple words because complicated ones do not bring anyone back.
I slipped quietly from the couch and called Adrian from the bathroom.
He answered on the first ring.
“What do you know about that fire?” I whispered.
“Not enough.”
“My father died there.”
“So did my brother, according to official records.”
“According to official records?”
“I saw him three nights ago in security footage near where my mother collapsed.”
My knees weakened, and I sat on the edge of the bathtub.
“That man on the sidewalk,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why would your dead brother have my father’s letter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I won’t lie to you.”
The anger went out of me because the fear was larger.
“My father ran into that warehouse because someone said there were people trapped inside,” I said. “They never found anyone else.”
“They found Daniel’s ring.”
“That’s all?”
“And enough remains to satisfy the report.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know what it means.”
His voice was rough now. Not loud. Not emotional in the obvious way. But something had cracked.
For the first time, I understood that I was not the only one whose dead had started moving.
“What was Daniel involved in?” I asked.
“He was twenty-two. Reckless. Angry at our father. Angry at me. He wanted to prove he could survive outside the family name.”
“And could he?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Then Adrian exhaled. “Or maybe he did.”
A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door.
“Nora?” Luis whispered. “You okay?”
I covered the phone. “One minute.”
Adrian heard anyway. “Go to work. Act normal.”
“Nothing about this is normal.”
“Pretend.”
“I’m bad at that.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You’ve been pretending you’re fine for years.”
I had no answer.
At work, every siren sounded sharper. Every stranger’s face seemed to linger too long. Twice, I thought I saw the young man from the sidewalk in passing cars, but each time he vanished before I could be sure.
By afternoon, my shoulder had stiffened so badly I could barely lift the monitor bag.
Luis noticed.
“You’re going to hurt someone if you can’t move fast enough,” he said gently.
“I know.”
“You need to report it.”
“And get pulled off shifts?”
