Chapter 9
The office felt heavier than usual that morning. Bruce Ford sat behind his desk, eyes fixed on the phone in his hand. The glow of the screen had become a distraction he could not shake. Messages he had read a dozen times were pulled up again, as if searching them once more would reveal something new.
Still thinking about me?
You didn’t answer last time.
The words were simple, but the effect was not. His chest tightened each time he saw them. He told himself it was nonsense, that Ella was gone and the dead did not return to send messages. Yet the phrasing, the timing, the way they echoed the voice he remembered in his darkest hours — it was enough to unsettle him.
He set the phone down, but his hand lingered over it. His coffee had gone cold on the desk beside him, forgotten.
