Rain clung to the air like a breath held too long. Mia stood beneath the narrow overhang of a brick alleyway, her hoodie already damp from the walk over, fingers trembling as she unfolded the crumpled envelope. The writing was unmistakable—Sarah's father, heavy-handed, barely-legible scrawl, like the words were etched with spite more than ink. The envelope had no stamp, no return address. Just a name. Just Sarah.
She didn't need to read the contents again. The phrasing still echoed in her mind: threats dressed as warnings, a venomous promise wrapped in paternal concern. Each line coiled around her memory, as if the letter had been written not just to Sarah, but to infect anyone who read it.
She hesitated, the paper poised above the trash bin. Fire wasn't the original plan. Her methods were supposed to be quiet. Reversible. Soft footprints on snow. But this letter—this object—carried weight. It was a fixed point. Dangerous in the wrong timeline. Dangerous even in this one.
Mia pulled a matchbook from her jacket pocket. It had only three matches left. She struck one, shielding it from the wind with her palm. The flame snapped to life, small and urgent, casting light on the warped lines of the letter.
For a moment, she watched it dance. Then, slowly, she touched it to the edge of the page.
The paper curled like a leaf in autumn, orange light licking the corners. Heat brushed her knuckles. The ink darkened and vanished in streaks. She held on until the last scrap glowed red, then flicked it into the bin. Embers spiraled up into the rain-heavy sky, sparks swallowed by mist.
She exhaled, finally.
But her chest remained tight.
Retrieving her notebook from inside her coat, she flipped to the marked section—"Threshold Proximity." In red ink, she drew a line beneath the title and wrote:
Burned Letter. Threat removed. Witness unknown. TimeRipple status: uncertain.
She paused, the pen hovering. Then she added:
No echo detected yet. But something shifted.
Just as she closed the journal, a distant siren pierced the air.
Mia tensed. Not a coincidence. Her mind calculated the odds. There had been no sign of nearby patrols when she arrived. And the timing—too perfect. Someone had seen something.
She pressed herself flat against the alley wall, breathing through her nose, slowing her pulse. Lights flickered at the far end of the street—too distant to see the source. Still, she stayed rooted for two long minutes, listening to every shift in the rain, every creak of settling brick.
Then, without a word, she slipped away into the night.
⸻
Elsewhere, Sarah sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, flipping through her sketchbook. The light from her desk lamp glowed low and golden, casting soft shadows across the carpet. Most pages were cluttered with idle doodles or half-finished figures—shapes she didn't remember drawing, moments stolen between classes or just before sleep.
Tonight, her fingers turned to the blank pages.
One had a faint scorch mark at the edge.
She frowned, brushing it with her thumb. The texture felt brittle, slightly crisped. There was no smell. No ash. No reason for it.
And yet, something about the singed corner made her pause.
A chill rippled down her spine.
She closed the book.
Downstairs, the mailbox stood slightly ajar. Her father's hand often slammed it shut, the metal still echoing through her memory. But tonight it gaped, as if left open in haste. Wind brushed the front door, making it creak.
She descended the stairs quietly, avoiding the loose board near the bottom. Her father's bedroom door was shut. Light off.
A single envelope lay on the floor beneath the mailbox. She bent to pick it up.
Empty.
No writing. No stamp. Just torn edges and faint residue of ash clinging to the interior seam.
She turned it over again. Her name had been there. She was sure of it. Or was it someone else's?
For a long moment, she just stood there. Then she whispered:
"Someone burned something."
The words didn't feel like hers.
⸻
Back in her room, Mia stared at her reflection in the fogged window. Her hair hung damp, strands clinging to her forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot from strain. She didn't recognize herself. Not entirely.
Removing the wet hoodie, she let it drop to the floor. Her skin felt too thin, like her presence here was starting to unravel. A feeling she hadn't logged in the journal yet—a wrongness she didn't want to name.
Another match burned between her fingers. She watched it until it guttered out.
Not this time. No more flames. Not tonight.
Instead, she lit a candle—the smallest one she had. Just enough to push back the dark.
She picked up the notebook and reread the most recent entries. Each one tighter. Less legible. She traced the ink on the page from two nights ago:
"Memory holds the shape of what we destroy."
Her hand hovered above the page, unsure whether to underline it.
She left it untouched.
Then, in smaller letters beneath:
If Sarah ever sees this—will she recognize the handwriting?
⸻
In Sarah's room, the sketchbook now lay open again. She didn't remember picking it up. Her pencil moved in small circles on a blank page, slow and unthinking.
A shape emerged.
A match. Unlit.
Beside it, a pair of initials she didn't recognize.
"DG."
She blinked. Looked down at what she'd drawn. Her fingers tightened on the pencil.
She closed the book again.
And this time, she placed it under her pillow.
She didn't know why.
⸻
The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the scent of smoke lingered. Mia stood outside the alley again, this time just watching the bricks. The scorch mark had spread slightly up the bin's rim. No sign of interference.
But on the opposite wall, someone had scratched three letters into the damp brick.
No one ever saw her leave them.
She stared at the marks, her throat dry. The chalky scrawl looked old—older than last night.
Or maybe it had always been there.
She wrote in her notebook:
"Not all traces vanish. Not all signs are left by us."
She didn't light another match.
She didn't need to.
She walked away, coat trailing behind her like a shadow separating from its source.