The room was quiet, filled with the soft hum of the fan and the distant echo of the wind outside. Alan lay on his bed, eyes closed, trying to will himself to sleep.

It had been months since he'd gotten a decent night's rest. The house, once warm and filled with the sound of laughter and conversation, now felt like a void---a hollow echo of a life that had once been.

Everything had changed since Mira passed.

It wasn't just the silence; it was the absence of her, the way her presence seemed to linger in every corner, yet at the same time felt so distant. He missed her so much that it ached, the kind of ache that seeped into his bones and refused to let go.

But tonight, like every other night, the ache felt heavier. The memories weighed down on him. He rolled over in bed, pulling the blanket tighter around him, his mind wandering back to when they'd first moved into the house.

The excitement; the joy of building a life together.

All of it seemed so far away now, like a dream he could barely remember.

Just as he was on the edge of sleep, a sound broke through the stillness---a quiet, barely audible creak. His eyes snapped open.

He lay perfectly still, listening.

Another creak, this time louder, followed by the unmistakable sound of water dripping onto the floor. It came from the direction of the bathroom.

Alan's breath caught in his throat. He lived alone now. The only other person who had ever shared this space with him was gone, buried six months ago.

Mira had always been the last one to use the bathroom at night, leaving the door open just a crack, the light spilling into the hallway. It had been her routine, one he had gotten used to over the years.

But there was no one left to follow that routine. No one left to walk the floors of this house at night.

The sound came again---a soft shuffle, like bare feet on the cold tile floor. Alan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he told himself it had to be his imagination. He was exhausted, grief-stricken, and half-asleep. Maybe it was a draft, or the house settling. Maybe a pipe was leaking.

He lay there, every muscle tensed, waiting for the sound to come again.

And then it did.

This time, it was the unmistakable creak of the bathroom door opening. Alan froze, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He stared at the ceiling, refusing to look toward the hallway, where the sound had come from.

He knew he was alone. He had been alone for months. But something about the sound---about the rhythm of the footsteps---felt too familiar.

Too real.

"Mira?" The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it, barely a whisper in the dark.

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick and heavy like the air before a storm. He waited, heart pounding, but no answer came.

Of course, no answer would come.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if he could block out the reality around him.

He wasn't losing his mind.

He couldn't be.

But the sound ... he had heard it.

He was sure of it.

And now, the silence was almost worse, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Slowly, hesitantly, Alan sat up in bed. He turned his head toward the hallway, squinting in the darkness. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, just as Mira had always left it, and a faint glow spilled into the hallway.

That was impossible.

He hadn't turned the light on.

His mind raced, his thoughts a jumble of fear and confusion.

Was it a power surge?

Had he forgotten to turn it off earlier?

But no---he hadn't gone into the bathroom at all tonight. He'd gone straight to bed, exhausted from a long day at work.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touching the cool floor. Slowly, he stood, his legs shaky beneath him. The house was still, but that same sense of wrongness filled the air.

"Mira," he said again, his voice trembling. He knew it was absurd. She was gone. He had held her hand in the hospital, watched her slip away. There was no coming back from that.

But the sound---the light---he couldn't explain it.

He stepped toward the door, his heart racing, and paused at the threshold. The light from the bathroom spilled out across the floor, casting long shadows down the hallway. He reached out and gently pushed the door open.

The bathroom was empty.

The sink was dripping, a slow, steady trickle of water hitting the porcelain basin. The air inside the room felt cold, colder than it should have been, as if the window had been left open on a winter's night. But the window was shut, and the floor beneath his feet was dry.

Alan stared at the sink, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn't used it since the morning, and yet there it was, dripping steadily. And then he saw it---something small, something that made his stomach twist in knots.

A towel, neatly folded on the counter, just as Mira had always left it after her showers.

His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he might be dreaming. But this was no dream.

This was real, too real.

His hand trembled as he reached for the towel. The fabric was damp to the touch, as if someone had just used it. But there was no one. There couldn't be anyone.

"Alan .…"

The voice came from behind him, soft and barely audible, but it sent a chill down his spine. He spun around, his heart hammering in his chest, but the hallway was empty. There was no one there.

But he had heard it.

Her voice.

Mira's voice.

He staggered back, his legs weak, and braced himself against the sink. This wasn't possible. None of this was possible.

But he had heard her.

He knew he had.

"Mira?" he called out, his voice shaking. "Is that you?"

Silence.

He stared at the empty hallway, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The light from the bathroom flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls, and for a moment, he thought he saw something---someone---standing at the end of the hall.

But when he blinked, the figure was gone.

This wasn't real.

It couldn't be real.

Alan stumbled back into the bedroom, his mind racing. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality, like the world was slipping away from him.

He hadn't imagined it.

He knew he hadn't.

But the rational part of his brain was screaming at him, telling him that none of this made any sense.

He sank down onto the bed, his hands shaking as he buried his face in them. Maybe this was what grief did to people. Maybe it was finally catching up to him, the months of loneliness and isolation. Maybe he was finally losing it.

But even as he tried to convince himself, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

And then, from the hallway, he heard it again.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate footsteps, moving toward the bedroom.

Alan's breath caught in his throat. He looked up, his eyes wide with fear, and stared at the doorway. The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped just outside the room.

He held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest.

And then, slowly, the door creaked open.

For a moment, there was nothing but darkness. The light from the hallway barely reached into the room, casting a faint glow on the floor. But then, slowly, a figure appeared in the doorway.

Alan's blood ran cold.

It was Mira.

She stood there, her hair damp, her skin pale, wearing the same nightgown she had worn the night she died. Her eyes, wide and vacant, stared at him, as if she were looking through him.

"Mira," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She didn't respond. She just stood there, silent, unmoving, her gaze fixed on him.

Alan's mind raced.

This couldn't be real.

This couldn't be happening.

He had buried her.

He had watched her die.

But there she was, standing in front of him, as real as the day she left.

His body trembled with fear, but at the same time, a part of him---some deep, desperate part---wanted to believe that it was her. That she had somehow come back. That she was still with him.

"Mira," he said again, his voice stronger this time. "Is it really you?"

She blinked, her head tilting slightly to the side, and for a moment, he thought he saw something---recognition, maybe---flicker in her eyes.

But then, she took a step forward, her bare feet making no sound on the floor. And as she moved closer, Alan's hope began to fade, replaced by a deep, gut-wrenching fear.

Something was wrong.

This wasn't Mira.

It couldn't be.

The air around her felt cold, unnaturally so, and the closer she came, the more oppressive that coldness became. It was suffocating, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

"Mira .…" Alan's voice faltered. "What … what are you?"

She stopped just a few feet from the bed, her eyes still fixed on him. Her lips parted, and for the first time since she had appeared, she spoke.

"You promised," she whispered, her voice hollow and distant.

Alan"s heart raced. "What?"

"You promised you wouldn't leave me."

The words sent a chill down his spine. Alan's breath caught in his throat. He had promised. The memory of that night came flooding back to him---the night Mira had slipped away, her body frail and weak, her hand clutching his in the hospital bed.

"You'll stay with me, right?" she had asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"I promise," he had said, choking back tears. "I won't leave you."

But she had left him. She had slipped away, leaving him in this cold, lonely world without her.

Now she was here---or something that looked like her---and it was repeating the words he had once said. The air in the room felt thick with an unnatural heaviness, and Alan’s mind swirled with confusion, fear, and guilt.

"I didn't want to leave you," Alan whispered, his voice cracking. "I couldn't stop what happened."

The figure that looked like Mira took another step closer, and the coldness intensified. Alan wanted to back away, to run, but something rooted him to the spot, his legs heavy and unresponsive.

"You let me go," the voice whispered again, its tone now dark, accusatory. "You promised you'd stay. Why didn't you stay?"

Alan shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. "I----Mira, I couldn't stop it. You were---there was nothing I could do."

The figure tilted its head again, the once gentle face of his wife now warped by something sinister, something not quite human. "You didn't even try," it hissed, the voice growing harsher, deeper. "You left me alone to die."

"No!" Alan cried, his voice shaking. "I was there, I held your hand until the end. I didn't leave you!"

A long, tense silence followed. The figure continued to stare at him, unmoving, unblinking, and the temperature in the room dropped even further. Alan's breath came out in shallow, visible puffs as if the air around him had turned to ice.

And then, without warning, the figure of Mira lunged at him.

Alan stumbled back, falling onto the bed as the thing---this twisted version of his wife---came closer, its face distorting with rage. Its eyes, once Mira’s warm brown, were now black, bottomless voids, and its mouth twisted into an unnatural grin.

"You left me!" it screamed, the voice no longer Mira's, but something monstrous, inhuman. The creature's hands reached out, cold as death, and wrapped around his throat.

Alan gasped, his hands clawing at the icy grip around his neck, but it was no use. The thing was too strong, its fingers tightening like a vice. The cold seeped into his skin, into his bones, and he felt his strength fading, his vision darkening at the edges.

"You don't belong here," the voice hissed in his ear, the breath like ice against his skin. "You were supposed to come with me."

Alan's mind reeled, his lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. The thing that had once been Mira was pressing down on him, suffocating him, draining the life from him just as surely as the illness had taken her.

"I … I didn't leave you .…" he choked out, his voice barely audible. His vision blurred as tears streamed down his face, and in that moment, something inside him shifted. He wasn't ready to die, not like this, not at the hands of this … thing.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Alan brought his knee up sharply, driving it into the creature's side. It let out an unearthly shriek and loosened its grip for just a moment---long enough for Alan to scramble out from under it and stumble toward the door.

He ran, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind him, the thing that had been Mira screamed, a sound so full of rage and despair that it sent shivers down his spine.

Alan didn't stop to look back. He burst out of the bedroom and down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but nothing made sense anymore.

Was he going mad?

Was this some kind of grief-induced hallucination?

As he reached the living room, he heard the thing following him, its footsteps heavy, deliberate. It was coming for him, and he knew there was no escaping it.

Not in this house.

Desperate, Alan threw open the front door and ran outside, into the night. The cold air bit at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip that had held him just moments ago.

He ran down the driveway, his breath fogging in the air, and stumbled onto the street. For a moment, he stood there, panting, looking back at the house.

The front door stood open, the light from inside spilling out onto the lawn. But there was no sign of the creature. No sign of the thing that had worn his wife's face.

Alan collapsed to his knees, his body shaking with sobs. He didn't know what had just happened---if it had been real, or some horrible nightmare brought on by his grief. But whatever it was, it had felt real.

Too real.

As he sat there, gasping for breath, a strange, heavy silence settled over the neighborhood. The wind had died down, and even the distant hum of traffic seemed to have vanished.

And then, from the open door of the house, he heard it.

A voice.

Her voice.

"You can't run from me, Alan."

He froze, his blood turning to ice.

"I'll always be with you."

The sound of footsteps echoed from the doorway---slow, deliberate, coming closer.

Alan's heart pounded in his chest as he looked around, desperate for a way out. But the street was empty, the world around him still.

There was nowhere to go.

Nowhere to hide.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they were just behind him.

And then, just as they stopped, the voice whispered in his ear, so close he could feel the cold breath on his skin.

"You promised."

Alan screamed, the sound ripping through the silent night as the darkness closed in around him.

... There was nothing but silence.

***

They found him the next morning, collapsed on the lawn, his body cold and stiff. There was no sign of a struggle, no sign of what had happened. The doctors would say it was a heart attack, brought on by stress and grief.

But those who knew him--who had known him and Mira---aould tell a different story.

Some said it was the house, that it had never let go of her. Others whispered of unfinished business, of promises that should never have been made.

But Alan had made that promise, and in the end, Mira---or whatever was left of her---had come back for him.

Just like she'd said she would.

***

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