Chapter 1 — Late-Night Message

Claire

Claire Bennett’s phone buzzed against the uneven surface of her coffee table, the vibration rattling a forgotten spoon in her empty teacup. She was curled up on the couch, her knees tucked under an old quilt, one hand idly flipping through a photography magazine she wasn’t really reading. The faint glow of her bedside lamp cast warm light across the room, softening the edges of the clutter she’d promised herself to clean up tomorrow—or maybe the day after. The smell of coffee lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the lavender from a candle she’d lit earlier, a small comfort in the stillness of the apartment.

She glanced at her phone but didn’t reach for it. It was nearly midnight, and the thought of engaging with the world—any part of it—seemed exhausting. Instead, she shifted beneath the quilt, pulling it tighter around her shoulders, and let her eyes drift back to the magazine. But the buzz came again, insistent, cutting through the quiet like a knock on a door she wasn’t sure she wanted to open.

Reluctantly, she picked up the phone. The message on the screen wasn’t what she expected.

“I miss you every day. Five years, and it still feels like yesterday. I love you, always. Happy anniversary, my love.”

Claire blinked, her thumb hovering over the reply button. At first, she thought it was a mistake—someone meant to send this to someone else. But the rawness of the words caught her off guard, their weight pressing lightly on her chest like the first pull of winter air. Her heart quickened, and she reread them, her mind swimming with questions. Who had sent this? Who was it meant for?

Her eyes flicked to her vintage camera, sitting on its tripod in the corner of the room. Dust clung to its leather strap, a quiet reminder of how long it had been since she’d felt the urge to create. She thought of how the camera had always been her way of connecting with the world, of capturing moments that felt too fleeting to hold onto otherwise. Lately, though, it had become just another object in her apartment, as stagnant as the life she was trying—and failing—to rebuild.

Her phone buzzed again.

“I hope you’re out there listening. I hope you’re still with me in some way. I don’t know how to let go.”

The tightness in her chest deepened. She set the phone down like it had burned her, her fingers trembling slightly. This wasn’t just a mistake. This was grief and longing, laid bare in a handful of words. She stared at the phone as if it might offer her answers, as if it might explain why reading those messages felt like an intrusion and a lifeline all at once.

She should leave it alone. She knew that. But loneliness had a way of bending reason, and hers had been growing quietly for months, curling into the corners of her life like shadows she couldn’t escape. She glanced at the camera again, at the scattered prints and film canisters surrounding it. They were remnants of a version of herself she barely recognized anymore.

Her phone buzzed a third time, the screen lighting up with the same message. She picked it up, her thumb brushing over the smooth glass as her breath quickened. She thought about the sender’s words, about the pain beneath them, and then about her own isolation. Weeks of aimless days spent drifting between gallery shifts and freelance gigs that barely paid the bills. Nights like this one, where the emptiness of her apartment felt cavernous, swallowing her whole.

“I’m here.”

The words appeared on the screen before she realized she was typing them. Her thumb hovered over the send button, her thoughts warring against her instincts. What was she doing? This wasn’t her grief to answer. And yet, the idea of leaving this person alone in their pain felt unbearable. They were reaching out to someone—anyone—just like she sometimes wished she could.

Her finger trembled as she pressed send, her heart pounding as the message disappeared into the ether.

Seconds stretched into an eternity before the phone buzzed again.

“You don’t know what this means to me. Thank you.”

Claire exhaled, her breath shaky as a mix of emotions surged through her: guilt, curiosity, and a strange, unexpected pang of connection. She had no idea who this person was, but their gratitude felt like an anchor, steadying her in the stillness of the room.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard again, but she hesitated. What could she say? She wanted to offer comfort, to ask questions, but she was afraid of shattering the fragile moment they’d just created. She glanced at the lavender candle, its flame flickering faintly, and let the scent ground her as she tried to collect her thoughts.

Instead, she set the phone down again and leaned back against the couch, letting the quiet hum of the city outside her window fill the room. Her eyes drifted to the photos scattered on the coffee table—half-finished projects abandoned in moments of doubt. Among them was a black-and-white shot of a park bench, its lines stark and empty under the weight of a winter morning. She’d taken it months ago, during a rare burst of inspiration, but it now felt like a metaphor for her life: quiet, stagnant, waiting.

The phone buzzed again.

“I thought I was ready to let go this year. But I’m not. How do you ever let go of someone who was everything?”

Claire pressed her hand to her chest, as if the question had struck her physically. She thought about her ex-fiancé, about the box she kept hidden in the bottom drawer of her desk. Photos, notes, the engagement ring she couldn’t quite bring herself to get rid of. She thought about the life she’d walked away from and the one she hadn’t yet figured out how to rebuild.

“I don’t think you ever really let go,” she typed, her fingers moving almost on their own. “I think you just learn how to carry it. Some days, it’s heavier than others.”

She hesitated before sending it, rereading the words and wondering if they sounded too polished, too much like something someone would say in a movie. But they felt true, and maybe that was enough. She pressed send and watched as the message joined the thread.

This time, the reply came quickly.

“That’s exactly how it feels. Thank you for understanding. You’ve helped more than you know.”

Claire exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest easing just a little. She didn’t know who this person was or why they’d chosen to reach out tonight, but she felt a strange sense of purpose in their exchange. The vulnerability in their words resonated with her in a way she hadn’t expected, as if they’d unknowingly cracked open a part of her she’d been trying to ignore.

The phone buzzed again, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Goodnight, and thank you again. I hope you have someone to talk to, too.”

Her smile faltered. She typed a quick reply—“Goodnight”—and set the phone down for the last time that night.

The room felt quieter than before, but not empty.

For the first time in months, she found herself looking at her camera, her fingers itching to pick it up again.

Maybe tomorrow.