The Woman Who Only Exists at Night

The best part of Elias Thorne’s day was closing his eyes.

It wasn’t about escaping the beige cubicle, the lukewarm coffee, or the silent, one-bedroom apartment that echoed with his own solitude. It was about going home. Home, to Clara.

Every night, without fail, she was there. Her hair smelled of cinnamon and rain, and her laugh was a low, warm melody that could soothe the sharpest edges of his waking life. In his dreams, they had a life painted in vibrant color. They had a small house with a crooked porch swing, two children—a boy with his eyes and a girl with her smile—and a love so profound it felt more real than the floor beneath his feet when he woke. He could feel the phantom weight of her head on his chest, hear the ghost of their son’s laughter in the hallway.

Then, his alarm would scream, and they would vanish. Clara, the kids, the house—all of it dissolved into the grey morning light, leaving behind an ache so deep it felt like a physical wound. He was just Elias again. A data analyst. A man who ate cereal for dinner and whose only companion was the hum of the refrigerator.

He was losing his grip, and he knew it. His boss had warned him about his slipping performance. He’d started calling in sick, just to steal a few more hours of sleep, a few more moments with a family that wasn't real. He was a man addicted to a fantasy, and reality was the painful withdrawal.

The change came on a Tuesday. Elias was wandering through the city's oldest flea market, a maze of forgotten treasures and dust, when he saw it. Tucked away in a splintered wooden box labeled "Old Portraits, $1 Each," was her face.

It was Clara.

His breath caught in his throat. It wasn't just a resemblance; it was her. The same constellation of freckles across her nose, the tiny scar above her left eyebrow from a childhood fall she’d told him about in a dream, the way her eyes held a hint of mischief. She was wearing a simple cotton dress, leaning against a tree he didn't recognize. The photograph was old, its edges yellowed and soft with age, but there was no mistaking it.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He paid the dollar, his hand trembling so badly he could barely count the change. He stumbled out of the market and into the harsh sunlight, the photograph clutched in his hand like a holy relic.

She was real.

The thought was a terrifying, exhilarating lightning strike to his soul. His dream, his beautiful, impossible dream, had a foothold in the waking world.

The obsession that followed was swift and total. His job became an afterthought. His apartment, a mere charging station for his body. His only mission was to find her. He spent hours online, running the faded image through facial recognition software that yielded nothing. He showed the photo to strangers, who offered only shrugs and strange looks. He returned to the flea market every day, interrogating the vendor who had sold him the box, a man with a memory as faded as his wares.

His waking hours became a frantic, desperate search. His nights became a bittersweet torture. He would fall into his dreams and hold Clara, telling her nothing of the photograph, terrified that acknowledging her reality would shatter the fragile perfection of their world.

"You seem tired, my love," she'd murmur, tracing the lines of his face.

"Just a long day," he'd lie, pulling her closer, breathing in her impossible scent.

After three weeks of dead ends, he found a clue. On the back of the photograph, written in faint, looping pencil, were two words: Lake Anawanda, 1998.

A quick search revealed it was a small, resort town three hours north. He didn't hesitate. He threw a bag together, left a vague message for his boss, and drove.

He found her working in a small-town library, the afternoon sun filtering through the tall windows and illuminating the dust motes dancing around her. She looked older than in the photograph, but it was unmistakably her. The sight of her, real and breathing, sent a shockwave through him. He stood frozen by the doorway, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

She looked up, her eyes—Clara’s eyes—meeting his. There was no flicker of recognition. Just the polite, blank smile of a stranger.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice a melody he knew, yet it held none of the warmth he cherished.

The hope inside him collapsed. Of course, she didn't know him. He was a stranger. A madman who had built a life with a woman in his head. Humiliation washed over him, cold and sharp.

"No," he managed to choke out, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry. I have the wrong person."

He turned to leave, the dream finally, brutally dying. His perfect life was a lie, and he had to go back to the grey emptiness of his own.

"Wait," she called out.

He stopped, his back still to her.

"It's just," she said, a strange, hesitant note in her voice. "You look so familiar. Have we met before? For a second, I almost called you Eli."