The Footprints
The wet footprints stopped halfway into the living room.
There was no body, no shadow, nothing to explain them.
I could hear the water dripping—slow, steady—like it was keeping time with my heartbeat.
I swallowed hard and inched toward the kitchen, my phone flashlight trembling in my grip.
The floor was wet now. My slippers made a soft squish with every step.
Then I saw it.
The kitchen sink tap was running, but the water wasn’t clear.
It was dark.
Red-dark.
I stumbled back, nearly slipping, and that’s when I saw the note.
It was taped to the fridge with a strip of wet masking tape, the paper curling at the edges.
Four words were written in black marker:
“CHECK THE FREEZER, AISHA.”
I didn’t want to.
Every cell in my body told me not to.
But my hand moved on its own, pulling open the freezer door.
Inside was another photo.
This one showed the same bridge, but the picture was taken last night. In the corner of the photo, standing under the streetlight, was me.
Except…
I hadn’t been anywhere near the bridge.
