The kitchen was quiet except for the steady ticking of the wall clock and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Afternoon light slanted through the blinds, striping the linoleum floor in dusty gold. Mia hovered by the sink, her presence barely tethered to the room, the air around her cool despite the warmth outside.
On the counter lay an envelope—thin, official-looking, and addressed in blocky, impersonal letters. It bore Sarah's full name, the one she rarely spoke aloud. Mia didn't need to open it to know what it was. The color, the weight, the language—they all screamed collection.
She reached for it with care, as though it might detonate. Her fingers ghosted over the seal before flipping it open.
Inside: a standard debt collection notice.
Overdue balance. Final warning. Legal consequences.
The phrases clung to the paper like rot.
Mia's chest tightened. It wasn't the first time something like this had arrived. She'd intercepted one before—months ago, from a different agency. That one had gone straight to the dumpster behind the building. This one, though, had slipped closer.
Too close.
Sarah wasn't ready for this. Not now—not when she was just beginning to trust herself again. A threat like this could send her spiraling.
Mia held the notice a moment longer, then walked calmly to the corner cabinet and retrieved the small shredder she kept hidden beneath old instruction manuals. She plugged it in with steady hands, the cord dragging slightly across the counter. The motor clicked softly as she fed the letter in.
Whrrr.
The sound wasn't loud, but it filled the silence with purpose. The paper vanished line by line, jagged strips curling in the wastebasket below. When it was done, Mia fed the return envelope in too—then the insert, then the outer shell. Everything.
Gone.
She stood for a moment, watching the shredded pieces settle like snow. One curled fragment floated upward before landing near her foot. She picked it up absently.
Legal consequence.
She crumpled it in her palm and dropped it into the bin.
Behind her, the faucet dripped.
She washed her hands without thinking. The water was lukewarm, the soap slick and unscented. As she dried her hands on a dish towel, she realized she'd been holding her breath.
There was no satisfaction. No pride.
Only necessity.
She walked to the trash can and tipped the contents of the shredder inside, burying them beneath last night's coffee grounds and an empty oatmeal container. Then she wheeled the bin to the back door, pausing before unlocking it.
Outside, the alley was still. A cat leapt onto a fence post and stared. A few dry leaves skittered past. Mia stepped out slowly, the screen door clicking shut behind her.
She rolled the bin toward the curb but didn't set it down immediately. Instead, she crouched beside it, hand pressed to the lid.
Something about this moment felt fragile.
Like she was burying something more than paper.
Mia's thoughts tangled: Had the notice arrived before? Had Sarah seen it and hidden it away? Had someone else sent it as bait? Her mind flitted through timelines, cause and effect, cracks where memory might've bled.
She couldn't be sure.
But she could be certain of one thing: it wouldn't reach Sarah.
Not this time.
Back inside, she returned to the kitchen. The shredder was silent now, inert. She unplugged it and stowed it beneath the manuals once more, layering dust cloths and takeout menus on top. She wiped the counter slowly, then again.
The room looked unchanged.
But something had shifted.
She moved toward the hallway, footsteps careful. The hum of the house resumed—pipes, air vents, the faint tick of a distant clock.
Mia turned toward Sarah's room, half-expecting a sound, a presence, a voice.
But there was only silence.
Until—
Knock.
She froze.
Three sharp raps against the front door.
Her pulse spiked.
Not now. Not when everything was supposed to be quiet again.
She stepped back, into shadow.
The knock came again.
Firm.
Insistent.
And this time, Mia could feel it like a vibration in her ribs.
Her gaze flicked toward the bin by the curb, then to the hallway, then back to the front door.
Someone was here.
Someone had come.
And she didn't know why.
Mia's breath slowed as she edged closer to the front window. She didn't peel back the curtain—just enough to see the porch.
A figure stood there. Not moving. Not retreating. Just waiting.
She couldn't make out the face. Only a silhouette against the sun.
Not a neighbor. Not delivery. No clipboard, no badge.
They knocked again.
Mia's hand hovered near the latch, but she didn't touch it.
Instead, she whispered softly to the air around her, "Not yet."
She retreated from the door, step by step, until her back hit the wall.
The figure outside shifted slightly, then stepped back. No retreat—just adjustment. A kind of patience that unsettled more than urgency ever could.
After a long moment, the footsteps moved away.
Not fast. Not slow. Just final.
Mia waited three more beats before she exhaled.
And then, finally, locked the door.
The click echoed through the quiet house.
She stepped away slowly, resisting the urge to glance out the window again. Instead, she moved through the living room, past the coffee table, the folded blanket on the couch, the notebook she'd left half open with Sarah's name underlined three times.
A reminder. A promise.
At the far end of the room, she paused. Her hand brushed the wall, finding the faint groove where an old painting had once hung. She ran her fingers along it, grounding herself.
Not now.
Not yet.
But soon.
And when it came—whatever it was—she would be ready.
Mia moved back toward the kitchen. She filled a glass of water and drank slowly, each swallow steady and deliberate. The knock had stirred something beneath the surface, something she couldn't name. Not fear exactly—more like recognition. Like the echo of a pattern she'd seen before.
She placed the empty glass in the sink and turned off the faucet's persistent drip. Then, just as carefully, she went to the hallway closet. From behind the winter coats and the storage bins, she retrieved a slim black file.
Inside were copies of everything she had ever shredded.
Not the physical copies, but her notes—each document logged in her own handwriting. Dates, contents, why it had to be removed. Not for evidence. Not for paranoia.
For continuity.
For memory.
She flipped to the most recent page and added:
April 19 – Collections notice, third instance, source ID code 2702C. Intercepted before exposure. Shredded immediately. External presence followed within 15 minutes.
She underlined the final sentence.
Then circled the date.
Then, after a pause, added:
Check return address. Compare with March incident. Possible correlation.
Her pen hovered. Then, in smaller letters:
Prepare contingency set B.
The lines wavered faintly, not from the pen—but from her hand.
She pressed the file closed.
Breathed.
And turned toward the hallway.
Sarah was still unaware. Still safe.
But the house no longer felt still.