The voicemail plays over and over, Tyler's garbled voice barely audible through the static, but clear enough to make my heart stutter every time. I've listened to it at least a dozen times now, my brain stuck in a loop, trying to rationalize what can't be real. My thoughts are spinning out of control, and I can't make sense of anything anymore.

He's dead. Tyler is gone. I was at the funeral. I held his cold hand, pressed my forehead to the casket, and glanced at his stale black spiky hair, his icy fair skin, and his favorite suit. I whispered goodbye. And yet, here he is. His voice. Calling my name.

I put the phone down, my hands trembling as I pace the small apartment. Max follows me, his eyes wide and alert, every muscle in his body tense. He knows something's off. The silence in the apartment feels alive, thick with anticipation, and I can't escape the sense that I'm being watched.

The shadows seem to move in the corners of my vision, and every little creak of the floorboards, every faint hum of the refrigerator sends my heart racing. I can't sit still. I can't rest. My mind is a storm of confusion and fear, spinning around one question: How is this happening?

I stumble into the bedroom, my legs feeling weak beneath me. The bed is still unmade, the sheets tangled from a week of restless nights. Tyler's pillow lies undisturbed on his side of the bed, the faintest trace of his scent still lingering in the fabric.

I sink onto the mattress, running my hands over the crumpled white sheets, trying to ground myself in something real. My mind feels like it's slipping, unraveling at the edges. I close my eyes and try to focus on the sound of my breathing, but all I can hear is Tyler's voice, echoing in my head.

Suddenly, I'm back there again, in the dream. The dream of the day we adopted Max. The day that felt so perfect, like everything was exactly as it should be. I can see Tyler's face so clearly, the way he smiled at me, his stunning green eyes crinkling at the corners in that way they always did when he was happy.

Max had been a ball of energy, darting between us as we filled out the adoption papers, his tiny paws sliding on the slick tile floor. Tyler had knelt down beside him, ruffling his fur, and looked up at me with that soft, knowing smile.

"I knew you'd fall in love with him," he'd said, his voice warm, full of affection. "He's just like you."

I'd laughed, my heart swelling with love for both of them, my future stretching out ahead of me like a bright, open sky. In that moment, I'd felt like nothing could go wrong, like everything was perfect.

But now? That future is gone, ripped away in an instant, leaving me stranded in a world I don't recognize anymore.

I open my eyes, blinking against the harsh reality of the empty room. But as my vision clears, I freeze.

Tyler's loose shirt—his favorite gray one with a tiny hole piercing near the lower left side, the one he wore in the dream—is folded neatly on the bed beside me. I stare at it, my heart racing, my mind struggling to catch up with what I'm seeing. I hadn't put it there. I hadn't even touched it since that day. But there it is, perfectly folded, as if someone had placed it there just for me to find.

My breath comes in short, panicked bursts. I reach out, my fingers trembling, and touch the fabric. It's real. Soft, warm, familiar. I clutch it in my hands, my chest tightening as I pull it to my face, breathing in the scent of Tyler. For a brief, fleeting moment, it feels like he's here with me, like I can still feel his presence in the room.

But then reality crashes back in, and the fear returns, stronger than before. This isn't right. This can't be right.

I stumble to my feet, clutching the shirt to my chest as I look around the room, my eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. I half-expect to see Tyler standing there, watching me, smiling that soft smile. But the room is empty. Just me and the silence.

Max whines from the doorway, his ears pinned back, his tail low. He senses it too—the wrongness of it all. I kneel beside him, running my fingers through his fur, trying to calm both of us. But my mind won't stop racing.

The shirt. The voicemail. The knocking on the guitar. None of it makes sense, but I can't deny that it's happening. I don't know if I'm losing my mind, if this is some twisted manifestation of my grief, or if...if Tyler is trying to reach me.

That last thought sends a chill down my spine. I don't know if I want it to be true, or if the idea terrifies me even more. If Tyler's really here—if his spirit is trapped in this apartment, reaching out to me—what does that mean?

Why hasn't he moved on?

Why is he still here?

I stand up, still holding his shirt, and move toward the closet. The door creaks as I open it, revealing the cluttered mess inside. Tyler's things are still here—his jackets, his shoes, the hard sturdy burnt orange suitcase we used for weekend trips. I pull the suitcase out, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should. It's still packed with clothes from our last trip together, untouched since he returned it to the closet.

I unzip it, my fingers shaking as I rummage through the clothes, looking for...what? A clue? An answer? Something to explain all of this? But all I find are more memories—familiar shirts, the book he'd been reading about relieving stress, the small bottle of cologne he always carried with him. It's all here, frozen in time, untouched by the world outside.

I sink to the floor, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. The suitcase feels like a relic of a life that's no longer mine, a life I can never return to. I press my face into Tyler's shirt, breathing in the scent of him, the tears coming hard and fast.

I don't know how long I sit there, clutching his things, lost in the overwhelming tide of grief. Time seems to slip away, the minutes blending into hours. The apartment feels like it's closing in on me, the walls pressing tighter, the shadows growing longer.

Max nudges my arm, pulling me out of the fog. His eyes are wide, anxious, his body tense. He whines softly, pawing at the floor.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and stand up, the weight of Tyler's shirt still heavy in my hands. I need to move. I can't stay here, drowning in these memories. I need to do something—anything—to pull myself out of this spiral.

I glance at the clock. Midnight. The air feels thick, oppressive, like something is watching me. I force myself to walk to the kitchen, the floor creaking beneath my feet as I move. I fill Max's water bowl, trying to focus on the simple, mundane task. But my hands are still trembling, my mind still racing with questions I don't want to ask.

And then the knocking starts again.

It's louder this time, insistent, coming from the living room. Max's ears perk up, and he growls low in his throat, his hackles rising. My heart pounds in my chest, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I turn toward the sound.

It's coming from the guitar again.

I feel frozen, my body locked in place, the fear pressing down on me like a physical weight. I can't move. I can't breathe. The knocking grows louder, more frantic, like someone—or something—is trying to get my attention.

I don't want to look. I don't want to see what's causing the noise, what's haunting this apartment. But I have to. I have to.

I take a slow, shaky step toward the living room, my pulse pounding in my ears. The knocking stops abruptly, leaving the apartment in suffocating silence. My breath catches in my throat as I reach the doorway and look toward the guitar.

It's not alone.

There's something—someone—standing beside it. A shadowy figure, barely visible in the dim light, but unmistakably there. My heart slams against my ribs as I blink, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.

The figure moves, shifting slightly in the darkness, and I feel a cold wave of terror wash over me. I can't see its face, but I know. Deep down, I know.

It's Tyler.