When My Sister Told Me She Was No Longer Alive

Two years ago, my sister Mariam vanished.

One moment, she was walking home from college—the next, gone. No signs of struggle. No witnesses. Her phone was found near a quiet road, screen cracked, music still playing.

We searched endlessly.

Posters. Police. Social media campaigns.
But nothing.

Eventually, the world let her go. But I didn’t.

Every night, I’d leave her bedroom untouched. Her books, her clothes, even the faint scent of jasmine she wore—preserved.

Until last night.

It was raining.

I was home alone. Power flickered. Silence pressed against the walls.

Then—

Three knocks.

Soft. Deliberate.

At the front door.

I opened it.

There she stood.

Mariam.

Soaked, barefoot, shivering—but smiling.

Her hair was longer. Her face paler.
But it was her.

I gasped. “Mariam…?”

She nodded.

“I came back.”

I pulled her inside, wrapped her in a blanket, touched her face.

She was cold. Not cold like winter—cold like stone.

“Where were you?” I whispered.

She looked at me.

Eyes blank. Soft. Hollow.

“I was in between.”

“In between what?”

“Life and memory.”

I stared.

She sat down slowly, like gravity worked differently on her. Her movements were... delayed. As if the world responded to her slower than it should.

“I don’t have much time,” she said.

“Time for what?”

She looked toward her old room.

“To say goodbye.”

I followed her in.

The room lit up the moment she entered.

I hadn’t turned on the light.

She walked to her old mirror and stared into it.

But her reflection wasn’t there.

I watched—trembling.

She touched the mirror’s surface and said:

“He let me return. Just once.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The one who keeps the forgotten.”

I shivered.

She turned to me.

“I didn’t want to leave. But my soul was... misplaced. Torn from my body before its time.”

She began to cry.

Tears that evaporated before touching her skin.

I stepped closer.

“You’re here now. We can fix this. Call someone—pray—something—”

She shook her head.

“I’m not real anymore. Just a borrowed echo. The body you see—it’s not mine.”

I wanted to believe she was lying. That this was a cruel trick. A trauma dream.

But the clock had stopped ticking.

The windows fogged over without a cause.

And shadows bent away from her.

She walked to her closet and pulled out her old diary.

“I wrote things in here—before I vanished. Things I never told anyone.”

She opened it.

Blank pages.

“All gone,” she said softly. “Even my memories are fading.”

Then she looked at me—smiling that same gentle smile I had missed for years.

“You were the only one who didn’t forget me.”

I broke down.

“I never will.”

She leaned in, hugged me.

It felt like fog holding fog.

Then she whispered:

“You’ll see me again. Just not here.”

The lights blinked.

She stepped back.

“I have to go before the boundary seals.”

“No!” I grabbed her hand.

Her fingers passed through mine.

“I’m already gone,” she whispered.

Then she vanished.

Not with a flash. Not with drama.

She just… dissolved. Like steam.

I fell to my knees.

Sobbing.

At sunrise, I found her diary on the floor—open.

One line had reappeared.

“I remember being loved.”