When My Wife Said She Was No Longer Human

I married Layla because she made the world feel warmer.

Her laughter lit up every room, and her silence felt peaceful, not cold.

We were married for four years.

We had our struggles—money, miscarriages, and long nights of doubt—but we always returned to each other.

Until she changed.

It began subtly.

She would sit longer in the dark. She stared at things without seeing them. Her food stayed untouched. Her body was present, but her spirit felt... misplaced.

“Are you okay?” I’d ask.

She would smile.

A smile that never touched her eyes.

One night, I woke up to find her standing by the window at 3 a.m.

She wasn’t looking out.

She was murmuring something.

Repeating the same phrase over and over.

“I remember the river. I remember the fire.”

I called her name.

She didn’t flinch.

She kept whispering.

I touched her shoulder—and she turned so fast, it made me stumble back.

Her eyes… they weren’t hers.

Same color. Same shape.

But no warmth.

Only cold, ancient silence.

She blinked slowly, tilted her head, and said:

“Why do you look scared, husband?”

I tried to laugh it off.

“Just startled,” I said.

She walked past me without another word.

The next morning, she was back to normal.

Made breakfast. Laughed at the news. Kissed me on the cheek.

But I noticed something.

She didn’t cast a reflection.

Not in the mirror.

Not on the glass windows.

Nothing.

I said nothing.

I wasn’t ready to believe it.

That evening, I found her in the garden, digging with bare hands. Not planting. Digging.

“Looking for something?” I asked.

She looked up with soil-stained fingers and said,

“He told me it’s under here. The memory of my first name.”

She had never spoken like that before.

That night, I called her sister.

“Has she ever sleepwalked? Or had... episodes?”

Her sister paused. “Why?”

I hesitated, then told her everything.

She was silent for a long time. Then she said:

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but… when we were kids, she went missing in the woods for two days.”

“What?”

“She was only eight. When we found her, she was silent for a week. Then she just… started being Layla again. We never talked about it.”

I pressed for more, but her sister refused.

That night, I watched Layla sleep.

She didn’t breathe.

No chest movement. No sound. Eyes half open.

I reached out to check her pulse.

She grabbed my wrist before I touched her neck.

And whispered:

“Even if I’m not who I was, I’m still yours.”

I couldn’t move.

She released me and turned to the wall, whispering a lullaby in a language I didn’t know.

The next morning, she told me something that broke me.

As we drank tea, she looked into her cup and said:

“You deserve to know. I’m no longer human.”

I dropped the cup.

“What… what are you saying?”

She looked up. Her expression calm. Steady.

“I was taken a long time ago. What you see now is just a borrowed face. A piece of her memory. But I like this life. I like you.”

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to deny it.

But somewhere deep inside… I knew.

The woman I loved was gone—or at least no longer entirely here.

I left the house that day. Went to a spiritual elder.

He listened to my story, then asked:

“Does she hurt you?”

“No.”

“Does she frighten you?”

“Yes. But she also comforts me. Somehow.”

He closed his eyes and said:

“Some entities fall in love with the lives they borrow. Not all mean harm. But none stay forever.”

I asked what I should do.

He said:

“Cherish what you have. Watch for the change. And when the eyes go dark for the final time—let her go.”

Weeks passed.

She became more distant.

Some nights, she disappeared for hours—returning wet, muddy, and barefoot.

Other nights, she’d hum lullabies and draw symbols in the dust.

But she always greeted me with a kiss.

Always said, “I’m trying to remember what love felt like.”

One night, I came home to find her dress folded neatly on the bed.

A single note lay on top.

“I remembered who I was. Thank you for teaching me love.”

She never returned.

But sometimes, when the house is quiet, I hear her voice in the garden.

And in the mirror, just behind my reflection—

I see her eyes.