George volunteered my services without asking me.
“You’re unemployed.”
“I’m on leave.”
“Same posture.”
The librarian, Elena Brooks, hired me temporarily for maintenance.
Twenty hours a week.
Nothing glamorous.
Repair shelves.
Replace hardware.
Move tables.
Help set up community events.
The money barely mattered.
Routine did.
I began walking to work.
Coffee at the diner.
Library.
Back upstairs.
Sometimes guitar at night.
For the first time in months, nobody knew exactly where I was unless I chose to tell them.
It felt like breathing with a window open.
Then Rebecca contacted me.
The first message arrived eight days after I left.
A photograph.
My old running shoes beside the back door.
Left these.
I stared at it.
The shoes were mine.
I had not thought about them once.
I typed:
Donate them.
Then deleted the message before sending.
I did not answer.
Two days later, a message appeared from a number I didn’t recognize.
You still make a mess.
My chest tightened.
There was no context.
No photograph.
Just that phrase.
I called the number.
Straight to voicemail.
Generic recording.
I texted:
Who is this?
No response.
I told myself it was Rebecca.
Obviously.
Maybe she bought another number because I wasn’t answering.
Annoying.
Not frightening.
Not yet.
Three days later, I received a voicemail.
Seven seconds.
No voice.
Just quiet room sound.
At first, I nearly deleted it.
Then I heard it.
Tick.
Pause.
Tick.
Pause.
The old clock from our living room.
A wooden wall clock Rebecca’s mother had given us.
The second hand had a faint mechanical click followed by a smaller echo from the glass cabinet beneath it.
I had listened to that sound for eleven years.
I knew it.
The recording ended.
I called Rebecca.
She answered on the second ring.
“Owen.”
“Did you call me from another number?”
Silence.
“What number?”
I read it.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Somebody sent me a message.”
“What did it say?”
“You still make a mess.”
Another pause.
“That sounds like me.”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t send it.”
“What about the voicemail?”
“What voicemail?”
I told her.
She became quiet.
“Owen, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I wanted to believe her.
Maybe spam.
Coincidence.
Some bizarre prank.
But how many strangers knew our clock?
Rebecca asked, “Where are you staying?”
The question came too smoothly.
“Why?”
“If someone is bothering you—”
“I’m fine.”
“You should tell me.”
“No.”
She sounded hurt.