Chapter 2

I froze, not daring to move.

The knocking outside the door kept going, steady and relentless, like the swing of a pendulum.

"Winnie, I know you're in there. If you don't open the door, I'm going to get angry." The figure's voice had turned cold.

It wasn't the warmth Michael always had. Now, his words were icy, stripped of any feeling.

My skin crawled.

Whoever, or whatever, was outside not only knew my name, Winnie, but could copy Michael's pissed-off voice perfectly.

That freaked me out.

I forced myself to calm down. I couldn't sit here and wait for whatever was outside to get me.

I scanned the room, looking for something I could use as a weapon.

The lamp was too light. The vase would shatter the second I threw it.

Finally, my eyes landed on the heavy baseball bat leaning against the closet.

Michael had bought it for decoration, but it was heavy as hell.

I tiptoed over, every step feeling like I was walking on eggshells, terrified of making even the slightest noise.

I grabbed the bat, the cold wood giving me a slight sense of security.

I gripped it with both hands, hiding behind my bedroom door, fixing my gaze on the living room door.

Time ticked by. Every single second felt like a century.

Finally, the knocking outside stopped.

I held my breath, listening hard. Outside, everything was eerily quiet.

Did he really leave? I had no idea.

I stayed frozen, not moving an inch.

Ten minutes crawled by.

I heard soft footsteps in the hallway, slowly retreating into the distance.

Then I heard the elevator doors open and shut.

He really left.

All the strength drained out of me in an instant.

The baseball bat slipped from my hands and thudded onto the floor.

I collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

My pajamas were soaked with cold sweat, clinging to my skin, cold and clammy.

I had no idea how long I'd been sitting there.

It wasn't until the sky started to lighten, the first rays of dawn slipping through the curtains, that I finally managed to get to my feet.

After a sleepless night, my head was pounding.

I was so out of it that I could barely think straight.

I walked up to the door, and after hesitating again and again, I finally couldn't help but peek through the peephole.

The hallway was empty.

The motion sensor light was still busted.

Last night was surreal, like a nightmare that made no sense.

I picked up my phone, about to call Michael.

But as soon as I unlocked it, my screen was flooded with news alerts.

One headline in bold instantly grabbed my attention. [Flight 5735, Eastway Airlines, disappeared at 3 AM. 132 people on board. Status unknown.]

Flight 5735? That was the flight Michael was on. My mind went totally blank.

My hands were trembling as I tapped on the news link.

Photos from the crash site popped up, and they were horrifying.

The wreckage was scattered everywhere, thick smoke billowed upward, and the ground lay scorched black.

I kept scrolling through the flight info again and again.

The departure and arrival times were exactly the same as what Michael sent me.

My phone dropped to the floor and broke apart, but I didn't even react.

Last night, the one knocking at the door had been neither a hallucination nor a lunatic, but Michael himself.

The plane crashed, and his soul came back for a final goodbye?

Once that idea took hold, it wouldn't let go.

The tears poured out, and I couldn't stop them.

A tidal wave of grief and regret swallowed me whole.

Why didn't I open the door?

Why was I so afraid?

I'd locked him out and left him alone to shiver in the cold.

I was such a piece of shit.

I fell to my knees, wailing, my cries ripping through me.

I punched my chest again and again, desperate to make the pain stop.

I wished I were the one who died.

I spent the next few days in a daze, barely aware of how I got through them.

Family and friends showed up at my place.

They tried to comfort me, telling me to take care and hang in there.

But none of it got through to me.

My whole world had collapsed.

Michael's parents looked like they'd aged decades overnight, crying so hard that they kept passing out.

I was drowning in guilt, unable to pull myself out.

It was drizzling on the day of the memorial service.

I stood there, numb, clutching Michael's portrait in my arms, surrounded by the crowd.

In the black-and-white photo, he was still smiling, that same bright, sunny smile.

But my heart felt like it was being sliced open.

I kept apologizing to him in my heart, again and again. I was sorry. I shouldn't have left him outside.

*****

After the funeral, I shut myself in at home. I didn't step outside, not even once.

Every day, I sat right on the floor by the door, hoping to hear that familiar knock again, even if it was to see him one more time.

But the door stayed silent. That knock never came again.