Anna stood at the edge of the dock, watching the lake’s calm mirror, the water serene, untouched. Something in her refused to settle.
The last time she and Milo were here, they’d fought. A slow-burn kind of fight, the kind where every word had its own hidden blade. She’d accused him of trying to control everything, down to how she arranged her books on the nightstand. He’d said she was paranoid, seeing patterns that weren’t there. When they left the cabin then, she hadn’t expected to come back. Yet here they were. Trying.
It was too late to try anything. Anna opened the airline app and stared at her plane ticket. Her younger sister, Sarah, had told her she could stay as long as she needed to find a new job and a place to live.
Why had she agreed to this last trip to the lake cabin? Maybe some small part of her still clung to the hope that her marriage could be salvaged.
Milo set the bags down inside, stretching his arms. “Feels smaller than I remember.”
Anna glanced around. It looked exactly the same—down to the worn armchair in the corner and the mismatched coffee mugs in the cupboard. “Hasn’t changed at all.”
He waved her words away. “Guess not.”
The vase of wildflowers on the counter. Lilies, white and pristine. Just like the ones she had arranged last time. But they should have wilted months ago. Milo must have called a neighbor to spruce the hut up, but they’d passed the neighbor’s house, and it seemed deserted, no car on the grass-overgrown drive.
The windows caught the setting sun at an angle that made the glass look solid, impenetrable. Like amber, preserving everything inside.
She ran her fingers along the kitchen counter, remembering summer mornings here before everything changed. Making coffee while Milo slept in, watching the same kingfisher, the master of the woods, dive to catch a bluegill. Simple moments that felt impossible now. Her hand hovered over the knife block. New. Sharp. She could have sworn they’d always used the old magnetic strip on the wall.
But there was no strip.
No empty mounting holes, no shadow of where it should have been—just smooth plaster, untouched.
After preparing dinner, she called him, but he didn’t respond. She found him reorganizing the bookshelf, methodically pulling volumes out and replacing them. ‘What are you doing?’
“Just tidying up.” He held up a book. “Remember this one? You were reading it last time. You said it was fantastic.”
She hadn’t brought any books last time. Had she? No. She remembered regretting having nothing to read. The memory felt slippery, like trying to hold onto water.
Anna rubbed her temples. Little things shifted under her awareness.
She texted her sister. “We’re at the cabin. Something feels wrong.”
Sarah’s reply came fast. “I told you not to go. I’m coming to get you.”
“Don’t. He’ll be angry.”
“Nonsense—”
The screen flickered. Then—black.
Anna stared at it. Then she grabbed the charger and plugged it in.
The dinner passed easily enough. They talked about work and pretended they were still the people they used to be. But that night, Anna woke with a prickling awareness that something was off. The familiar suddenly unfamiliar, as if everything had been moved an inch to the left. The air inside the cabin felt heavier.
She picked up her phone from the nightstand. The battery was at 0%. She was sure she’d charged as soon as they arrived at the cabin, but maybe not. The outlet by the bed didn’t seem to be working anymore.
She sat up and scanned the dark. Everything was where it should be. The small bedside lamp, Milo’s folded cardigan on the chair. But the closet door was cracked open. She was sure it had been closed before.
The air smelled different, too—cleaner. No dust or scent of woodsmoke clinging to the old walls. Even the sheets felt new, stiff in a way that didn’t match her memory. The silence was too deep, like the world outside the cabin had been switched off.
The following day, she pushed everything out of her mind.
Anna remembered their first visit here before they bought the cabin. How excited Milo had been about the isolation. “It’s perfect,” he’d said. “Just us.” She’d found it romantic then. He’d talked about all the improvements they could make—better locks, a security system, reinforced windows. “To keep us safe,” he’d said. She hadn’t asked, safe from what?
She picked up her phone from the kitchen counter. Still dead. But she’d left it charging all night. “Can you please check the outlet on my end?”
“On your end?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Okay,” he said, reading a three-day-old newspaper.
She was sure they bought yesterday’s issue at the gas station, but when she told Milo, he said he’d forgotten the newspaper. He insisted he’d only purchased a local magazine about fishing.
They went on a hike, just like they used to, but Milo seemed distracted. She kept her eyes on the trail, searching for familiar markers—the split oak, the moss-covered boulder—but they weren’t there. The path felt wrong. Not unfamiliar, exactly. Just . . . off.
She stopped. “This isn’t our usual trail.”
Milo barely glanced at her. “Of course it is.”
She turned, scanning the trees. Hadn’t there been a clearing here? A bend in the trail that led to the ridge? She could almost picture it. Almost.
“No,” she said, firmer this time. “It’s different.”
“It’s the same old trail, Anna.”
And for a moment, she believed him.
By the time they returned, Anna was exhausted. She stepped into the bathroom and opened the drawer where she’d left her new toothbrush—except inside there was another one. Same brand. Same color. But not new. The bristles were flattened, the handle dulled. It looked like it had been used for months. But she hadn’t used it. Had she?
Her fingers twitched, and she shut the drawer harder than she meant to. “Did you put this here?” she said through the open door.
Hearing no responses, she padded to the living room.
When he finally looked up from his book, his face was unreadable. “What?”
“My toothbrush. The old one.”
He frowned. “You must’ve left it here last time.”
Her heart gave a lurch. I didn’t. She remembered exactly—she had bought the wrong type last time they were here. Too hard. Made her gums bleed. She’d thrown it away.
Used Milo’s instead.
He may have brought a new one for her this time. She ran her thumb along the bristles. Soft. Worn. Like she’d used it for months.
That night, she barely slept. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees, and she felt that creeping wrongness again. Like the cabin itself was holding its breath.
The next morning, she woke to the cheering smell of coffee. Milo was sitting outside on the deck, feet up, watching the lake.
Anna stepped outside, arms wrapped around herself. “Did you hear the wind last night?”
Milo didn’t look at her. “Nope. Slept fine.”
She let the silence stretch between them before speaking again. “I feel like . . . I don’t know. Like something’s weird.”
Milo finally turned, his expression unreadable. “Maybe you’re just looking for something to be wrong.”
The words stung. “That’s not fair.”
He ran a hand over his week-old stubble. “Look, we came here to reset. Maybe that means letting go of whatever you think happened last time.”
She blinked at him. Whatever she thought happened?
The memory came in fragments, like a broken mirror—each piece sharp enough to cut. They’d been here in October. The leaves had been turning red and gold, but the water was still warm enough to swim. Milo had been different then. Attentive. Watching her. Taking notes on his phone when he thought she wasn’t looking.
She’d found a bottle of pills in his bag. Not his usual prescription—something else. When she’d asked, he’d said they were for her. “For anxiety,” he’d explained, so reasonably. “I talked to Dr. Saltzman.” Anna froze. That wasn’t possible. Milo couldn’t have spoken to her doctor. It would be illegal—doctor-patient confidentiality.
Unless they were ganging up on her.
No. That was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
Then why would Milo say something so obviously untrue?
That night, back in October, she’d packed her bag while he was sleeping. She stood at this same window, watching the moon on the lake, her heart pounding as she planned her drive home.
But the next morning . . . the next morning was blurry. That unusual dizziness. She saw herself waking up in their bed at home with Milo stroking her hair, telling her she’d had a panic attack. That they’d driven home together. That she needed rest. More help. Less stress.
She’d shaken her head, trying to clear it. No. That wasn’t right. She’d driven home alone. Hadn’t she? But then, why couldn’t she remember the drive?
The pills, maybe.
“Anna?” Milo’s voice pulled her back to the present. He was watching her with that same concerned expression. Patient. Caring.
She glanced at the lake through the window. In this midsummer glorious day, the leaves were already fluttering down as if they longed for October in June. The wind. Last night.
That day, more things were off. Her book wasn’t where she’d left it. Her phone had moved from the counter back to the nightstand. Small, almost insignificant changes. But many.
In the bathroom, she found her shampoo. The bottle was half-empty, water spots freckling the label. She turned it in her hand. A crack along the cap—as if it had been dropped, hitting the floor at just the wrong angle. She tipped it over, and the liquid poured too fast, too thin. The same watery consistency from when she’d diluted the last remnants to make it last a little longer.
It was the same bottle she’d thrown away at home. A week ago.
“Milo?” she called out. “Did you bring my shampoo from home?”
No answer at first. Then—too close, right behind her—“What shampoo?”
She hadn’t heard him approach.
Shaking the bottle, she fixed her gaze on the spot between his eyebrows. “I threw this away.”
He frowned. “That’s been here since last time. You’re doing it again, Anna. Seeing things that aren’t there.”
She bit her lip. Stop talking. Stop talking.
That evening, she opened the closet doors and stared at the old suitcase shoved into the corner. She unzipped it. Inside, folded clothes—hers. Not new. Old. Clothes she’d taken home after last time. Clothes that should not be here. Each piece arranged exactly as he would have done it, with the precision he’d always insisted on. The precision she used to tease him about.
The sweater in her hands was green—her favorite color. Was. She hadn’t worn green in months. “Blue suits you better,” Milo had said, and somehow, her wardrobe had shifted, piece by piece, like sediment settling at the bottom of the lake. When had she stopped choosing?
She turned, heart hammering. “Milo.”
He stood in the doorway, watching. “What?”
She lifted the sweater. “How is this here?”
Milo didn’t answer right away. “You’re tired, Anna.”
Her fingers tightened around the fabric. “You brought this here. You put the toothbrush in the drawer. You moved my book. You . . .”
He exhaled slowly. “I think you should get some sleep.”
She dozed off on the couch and woke to find herself in bed, covers tucked around her with hospital corners, as her mother used to do it. The way she’d told Milo about once, months ago. Had he moved her? Had she walked here herself? The clock by the bed read 13:47, but the light through the windows looked like late afternoon.
While they cooked dinner, she watched him cut vegetables with precise strokes. Everything in neat, identical pieces. Like the folders he’d organized her work documents into and the categories he’d created for her email. “To help,” he’d said. “To make things easier.” She looked down at her own plate. She didn’t remember starting to eat.
The fork felt wrong in her hand. Too heavy. She glanced at the silverware—it was new, gleaming. Not the mismatched set they’d collected over the years. “When did we get these?”
“We’ve always had these, Anna.” His voice was patient, like explaining to a child. “You picked them out yourself.”
Had she? The memory fluttered at the edge of her mind like a moth against a screen door. Wanting to get in. Or out.
She rose from the table, ignoring Milo’s worried look, and went outside.
From the dock, the lake looked different in the dimming light. Deeper. Darker. She used to swim to the floating platform, but Milo had convinced her it wasn’t safe alone. “What if you got a cramp? What if I wasn’t here?” The platform was gone now. She couldn’t remember when it had disappeared. Like so many things—her old job, her Tuesday yoga class, her weekly calls with Sarah—all gone, one reasonable explanation at a time.
She went back inside, sat in the kitchen, and looked at the mug he’d filled with coffee. It was new. Dark blue ceramic, exactly like the ones she’d bought for their apartment last month. The ones she’d chosen herself. The ones he’d smiled at, saying they were perfect. A headache pressed against her temples, a slow throb, like the aftermath of a long cry. But she couldn’t remember crying. Couldn’t remember sleeping. What day is it already?
Her gaze lingered on the spot where the magnetic strip holding the knives had been. She stepped closer, running her fingers along the wall. The plaster was smooth, showing no sign of the previous fixture. In the corner where the walls met, she noticed a subtle shift in color tracing the seam from floor to ceiling.
Spotless. Almost the same light blue, but not quite.
That was when she knew.
She took Milo’s phone while he was in the shower and texted her sister. She dropped the phone twice. Come, please. Now!!! The sound of the shower ended, and she deleted the text. Fog in her mind. After replacing the phone in his jacket pocket, she wasn’t sure she’d erased the conversation correctly.
He came out of the bathroom in a towel, his face serene, and sniffed the air. “Bacon!”
“The last rashes. We’re also out of eggs.” She turned away from him, reaching for her handbag. “I’m going to the grocery.”
Milo’s voice was calm. “Anna—”
The car key weren’t in the small copper plate.
“Where’s the key?”
Milo looked at her, expression blank. “I took it.”
She blinked at the blue mug in his hand. Hadn’t she broken one just like it? Or had it been something else? A plate? A picture frame? Milo had been standing right there, mouth open, hands raised in disbelief.
She pressed her palm to her forehead. No, that wasn’t right. They’d argued, yes. About the cabin, about trust, about how she always twisted things—his words. But had she thrown the mug? Had she?
The floor under her feet felt unsteady.
She swallowed hard. “Why?”
He leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. “You need some time to think. No distractions.”
Her chest tightened. “This isn’t funny.”
He set the mug down with a soft clink and smiled. “I never said it was.” Then, after a pause. “It’s going to rain. You should stay here.”
His voice was gentle. The same tone he’d used when suggesting she take a break from work last year. When insisting she needed more rest. When explaining why her friends hadn’t called in weeks. “Even your sister agrees with me,” he had said. Everybody knew Anna needed quiet.
She pushed past him, yanking open the door. The cold air hit her like a slap.
The driveway was empty. No car.
Anna ran out and circled the house. The old motorbike should be in the shed.
Here, a car she had never seen before. New. The forest-green paint shiny.
The driver’s seat was stained dark. She pressed her fingers into the upholstery—damp. The liquid had seeped deep into the padding, trapped beneath the surface. When she pulled her hand back, something sticky clung to her skin.
The key sat in the ignition.
Anna reached for it, her fingers brushing against the leather case dangling from the key ring. A name—faded, almost erased. She squinted, but the letters were smudged, obscured.
She scratched at the surface. Brownish flecks crumbled away, brittle. Whatever had blotched the case dried fast on the thin leather.
An “S” emerged. Then, an “A.”
S A – – A H
Anna stepped back, the key, keyring, and case slipping from her fingers.
Dizzy, unsteady, she turned to the lake.
The water lapped against something just below the surface, a long shape she couldn’t quite make out. A trick of the light.
A submerged log, or something shaped like one.
She knew what it was. She just couldn’t afford to believe it.
If she didn’t look too closely, she could still pretend.
The thing in the lake bobbed with a sudden breeze.
Waiting.
