The morning light feels wrong, as if it doesn't belong in this place anymore. It creeps through the blinds in thin, muted slivers, casting pale streaks across the room but doing nothing to chase away the cold that clings to my skin. I sit at the kitchen table, Tyler's journal open in front of me, the last entry still staring back at me.

I know what's happening. I know what it wants.

I've read those words a hundred times since last night, turning them over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of them. What did Tyler know? What was he trying to tell me? I can't stop thinking about it, can't stop searching for meaning in the jagged scrawl of his handwriting, but the answers stay just out of reach.

I rub my temples, fighting the headache that's been building since the moment I woke up. It's like a pressure in my skull, a dull throb that pulses in time with my racing thoughts. I haven't slept much—just brief snatches of rest between long hours of lying awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the apartment. Max barely leaves my side, his eyes constantly darting to the corners of the room as if he's expecting something to appear.

Maybe he is. Maybe I am too.

I try to focus, try to pull myself back to the present, but everything keeps slipping away. My memories of Tyler feel sharper today, more vivid. I can see him so clearly—his crooked smile, the way his eyes would crinkle when he laughed, the feel of his arms wrapped around me. But at the same time, he feels distant, like a fading echo of a life that was never really mine.

I reach for the cup of coffee in front of me, the liquid cold and bitter as I take a sip. I don't even taste it. My mind is too consumed by the journal, by the voicemail, by the shadowy figure I saw last night. I'm not crazy. I know what I saw. And I know what I heard.

Tyler's voice, calling out to me.

I glance at my phone, sitting face down on the table. No new messages. No more voicemails. Just silence. A part of me is relieved, but another part—one I don't want to acknowledge—feels disappointed. I want to hear his voice again. I want to know what he's trying to tell me.

I close the journal and push it away, my hands shaking slightly. I need to clear my head. I need to do something, anything, to stop the thoughts from spiraling. I stand up, pacing the small kitchen, trying to force my brain into order. But everywhere I look, there's something to remind me of him.

The jacket hanging by the door. His sneakers still tucked under the table. The guitar in the corner, silent now but full of secrets. The apartment is like a museum of our life together, every object a monument to what I've lost.

And then there's Max, following me everywhere, his presence a constant reminder of the last gift Tyler ever gave me. I kneel down beside him, running my fingers through his fur, grounding myself in the feel of something solid, something real.

"I'm okay," I whisper, though I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince—Max or myself. "We're okay."

Max looks up at me with those big, trusting eyes, but I can see the unease in him too. He knows things aren't right here. I can see it in the way his ears twitch at every small sound, the way his body tenses whenever we walk past Tyler's things.

I stand up and move to the living room, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest as I glance at the calendar hanging by the fridge. Tyler's birthday is coming up. November 2nd. I was planning a trip for us, a surprise getaway for just the two of us. I'd been so excited, plotting every detail in secret, picturing the look on his face when I told him.

But now, there's no trip. No celebration. Just silence.

Except...

An idea stirs in the back of my mind, one I don't want to entertain but can't quite shake. What if I still celebrated? What if I honored Tyler's birthday in my own way, here, in the apartment? A small gesture, just me and Max. Something to make him feel...closer.

I swallow hard, staring at the empty space in front of the couch where we used to sit together. It's ridiculous. A birthday party for someone who isn't here, who's gone. But is he? Isn't that the whole point of everything that's been happening?

Tyler's voice. His presence. Him asking for help.

I feel my heartbeat quicken as the idea solidifies. A way to bring him back, if only for a little while. A way to bridge the gap between the past and now. Maybe it's crazy, but I'm desperate for something—anything—to feel close to him again.

Without thinking, I start moving. I grab Tyler's favorite album from the shelf, the one we always played on his birthday, the one with that stupid song we'd dance to in the kitchen when we were tipsy and laughing. I dig through the drawers, pulling out a few candles, a lighter. My hands move on their own, almost mechanically, as I set things up—clearing the coffee table, lighting the candles, placing the album on the stereo.

Max watches me the whole time, his head tilted as if trying to figure out what I'm doing. I'm not sure I know either.

When I'm done, I stand back, staring at the small, makeshift "birthday" setup in front of me. The candles flicker softly, casting long shadows against the walls. The stereo hums quietly, waiting for me to press play.

It feels strange. Like I'm crossing some kind of line, stepping into a space where I don't belong. But at the same time, it feels right. Like this is what Tyler would want. Like he's here with me, waiting for me to begin.

I sit on the floor in front of the coffee table, Max lying beside me, his head resting on my leg. My heart pounds in my chest as I reach for the stereo, my fingers trembling slightly as I press play.

The music starts slow, soft. The familiar guitar chords fill the room, and I feel the tears welling up in my eyes almost instantly. This was Tyler's favorite. I can picture him now, sitting beside me, his arm around my shoulder, humming along to the melody like he always did. For a moment, it's like nothing's changed. Like he's still here.

I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me, letting myself get lost in the memory of him. It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt. The kind that reminds me of what we had, of how much he meant to me.

And then, there's a knock at the door.

I freeze, my eyes snapping open, my heart leaping into my throat. Max growls low in his throat, his body tensing beside me. The knock comes again, louder this time, more insistent.

I stand up slowly, my pulse racing, my legs unsteady as I walk toward the door. My hand shakes as I reach for the handle, my mind racing with a thousand possibilities—who could be at my door at this time?

Could it be...?

No. It can't be. Tyler's gone. I know that. But I can't shake the hope bubbling up inside me, irrational and desperate.

I open the door, my breath catching in my throat.

There's no one there.

I blink, staring into the empty hallway, my heart pounding in my chest. The corridor is completely still, the soft hum of the building's heater the only sound. My eyes dart left, then right, searching for any sign of movement. But there's nothing.

And then I see it.

A small, neatly wrapped box sitting on the welcome mat. It's tied with a familiar red ribbon, the same kind of ribbon I used to tie Tyler's birthday gift last year. The sight of it sends a cold shiver down my spine.

I kneel down, my hands shaking as I reach for the box. It's small, lightweight. The kind of box you'd put a piece of jewelry in. My breath catches as I untie the ribbon, the silky fabric slipping through my fingers like water. I lift the lid, my heart racing.

Inside is Tyler's old watch. The worn-down leather band with the copper trimmed circular edge, and the roman numerals glistening underneath the glass cover. The tiny clock hands standing idly. This watch once belonged to his grandfather, and he cherished this every single time. He wore it every day. But I haven't seen this watch since the accident. I thought it had been lost or even destroyed.

I feel the ground tilt beneath me, the air rushing out of my lungs. This isn't possible. I remember searching for it, desperate to keep something of his close after he was gone. But it was gone too, vanished with him.

And now, here it is. Sitting in my hands, perfectly wrapped, as if it's been waiting for me all along.

I stagger back into the apartment, my mind reeling, my pulse pounding in my ears. I don't know what's happening anymore. I don't know if I'm losing my mind or if something truly impossible is happening. I clutch the watch in my hands, the cold metal digging into my skin, and I don't know whether to cry or scream.

Max whines, pacing in front of the door, his tail low, his ears pinned back. He's just as confused as I am, just as unsettled.

I glance down at the watch, my fingers trembling as I run them over the familiar surface. Tyler's initials are still engraved on the back, just like they always were. This is his watch. There's no mistaking it. I turn back to the living room, my legs weak, and collapse onto the couch. The candles are still burning, the music still playing, but the atmosphere feels different now. Darker. Heavier.

I hold the watch tight in my hands, my mind spinning with questions I don't know how to answer. How is this possible? How could something of Tyler's just reappear like this? And why now?

The knock on the door echoes in my mind, as does the memory of Tyler's voice in that voicemail.

Help me

I don't know what he needs. I don't know what's happening. But I can't deny it anymore.

Tyler is trying toreach me.