Chapter 1: The Hollow Farewell

Chapter 1: The Hollow Farewell

The air in the chapel was thick with the cloying sweetness of lilies and decay. Alex Carter stood in the back row, the borrowed suit jacket feeling tight and scratchy across his shoulders. He felt a familiar numbness settle over him, a dull gray blanket that muted the world. He was an island of apathy in a sea of performative grief. The woman in the polished oak casket, Lillian Vance, was a ghost long before she’d died; a name in a family tree, a great-aunt he couldn’t pick out of a lineup.

He scanned the faces of his relatives. They weren't crying. Their expressions weren't of sorrow, but of a tense, collective vigilance. Uncles and cousins, normally loud and boisterous at holiday gatherings, stood in tight, silent clusters. Their eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, didn't linger on the casket. They darted around the room, flitting past him, over him, through him, before quickly looking away. It was the way you’d watch a volatile chemical reaction, waiting for the inevitable, disastrous result. His own father stood near the front, shoulders rigid, staring straight ahead, refusing to meet Alex’s gaze.

It was all so deeply, profoundly weird. A funeral should be a simple transaction: you show up, you look sad, you eat dry sandwiches, and you go home. This felt like something else entirely. A shareholder's meeting for a failing company. A parole hearing.

The service droned on, a meaningless string of platitudes from a priest who had clearly never met the deceased. Alex let the words wash over him, focusing instead on the flickering dust motes dancing in the beams of stained-glass light. It was easier than trying to decipher the strained silence of his kin. He just had to get through this. Then he could go back to his apartment, to the sterile glow of his monitor and the predictable comfort of his routine.

As the final prayer ended, a wave of relief washed over him. It was almost over. People began to shuffle out, a low murmur replacing the oppressive silence. He turned to make his escape, but a hand clamped down on his arm.

It was his cousin, David. He was a few years older, with a face that was usually ruddy and cheerful. Today, it was pale and slick with sweat, his eyes wide with a frantic energy that bordered on panic.

“Alex,” David breathed, his voice a ragged whisper. “I… I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Alex asked, trying to pull his arm away. David’s grip was surprisingly strong. “She was eighty-two. Lived a long life, I guess.”

David’s expression twisted. It wasn’t grief. It was something closer to desperate relief. “No, you don’t understand.” He pulled Alex into a hug, and it was the strangest embrace Alex had ever felt. It wasn’t warm or comforting. It was a desperate, frantic grappling, like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. David’s hands dug into his shoulders, his body trembling violently.

A profound, unnatural cold seeped into Alex’s bones, originating from where David’s hands held him tightest. It was a deep, invasive chill that had nothing to do with the chapel’s damp air. It felt like being plunged into icy water, the shock of it stealing his breath. For a dizzying second, the world seemed to tilt, the low murmur of the room fading to a distant roar. He felt a sudden, crushing wave of exhaustion, as if all the energy had been siphoned directly out of him.

David’s desperate, cold hands gripped him, a final, convulsive squeeze.

Then, just as quickly, his cousin pushed him away. The color was already returning to David’s face, a healthy flush replacing the ghastly pallor. The frantic terror in his eyes had subsided, replaced by a deep, shuddering relief. He looked at Alex, and for a fleeting moment, Alex saw a flicker of pity in his gaze.

“Thank God,” David whispered, more to himself than to Alex. “It’s over. For me.”

Before Alex could process the words, David was gone, melting back into the crowd of dark suits. Alex stood frozen, the phantom cold still radiating through his chest. He rubbed his shoulders, trying to chafe away the feeling, but it lingered, a deep, internal ache. He watched his father hurry out of a side door, still avoiding him. No one else approached. It was as if a bubble had formed around him, a space they were all careful not to enter.

Fine by me, Alex thought, the numbness rushing back in to quell the unease. He wanted nothing more than to be alone.

The drive back to his apartment was a blur of gray asphalt and overcast sky. He cranked the heat, but the chill seemed to have settled deep within him. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see a pair of watchful eyes in the back seat. The feeling was absurd, but he couldn’t shake it.

His apartment was his sanctuary. Clean, minimalist, impersonal. A testament to a life lived at a safe distance. He tossed his keys on the counter, shed the suffocating suit jacket, and collapsed onto his sofa, the silence of the space a welcome balm. The funeral, the whispers, David’s bizarre embrace—it all started to feel like a bad dream, the details already fading. It was stress, that’s all. A disruption to his carefully managed life.

But as dusk bled through the large window, painting the walls in shades of orange and bruised purple, the feeling returned. A subtle, prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

The feeling of being watched.

He sat up, scanning the empty room. The living area flowed into a small kitchenette. The only other doors led to his bedroom and the bathroom. Both were closed. He was alone. He had to be. Yet, the feeling persisted, a constant, low-level hum of anxiety beneath his skin. He saw a flicker of movement in the reflection of the darkened TV screen and his heart hammered against his ribs, but it was just his own shadow shifting.

“Get a grip, Carter,” he muttered, his voice sounding hollow in the quiet.

He forced himself through his evening routine. A bland microwave dinner eaten while scrolling through his phone, a hot shower that did nothing to chase away the internal cold, and finally, the promise of oblivion in his bed. He was exhausted, his limbs heavy, his mind foggy. Sleep came quickly, pulling him under into a thick, dreamless dark.

And then, he was awake.

But not in his bed.

He was standing. The air was frigid against his bare skin. His feet were numb on the cold hardwood of the hallway floor. He didn’t remember getting up. He didn’t remember walking. A sliver of moonlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the large, cheap mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

He was standing directly in front of it.

His heart began a slow, heavy thud. A primal fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of sleep. He stared at his reflection, a silhouette in the gloom. It looked like him, of course. Messy dark hair, the tired slump of his shoulders. But something was wrong. Utterly, fundamentally wrong.

The figure in the glass seemed… layered. As if his own reflection was a semi-transparent sheet, and behind it, just barely visible in the oppressive darkness, another shape was superimposed. A subtle distortion in the lines of his face. A shadow clinging to his back that was too deep, too solid.

He didn't move. He couldn't. He could only stare, his breath caught in his throat, as he realized the chilling truth.

He wasn't alone in the mirror.