HE WAS ERASED: System Error

CHAPTER 1: HE WAS GONE There was no record of Kael Morrow. That’s what the DMV clerk told us at 1:47 PM. “System says this ID number belongs to a Karen Morrow. Age 72. Deceased.” Kael went still. “That’s not possible. I renewed this six months ago.” The clerk shrugged. “Computers. You know how it is.” She printed the marriage license anyway. Room 302, Michigan Avenue. “Sixty dollars. Cash only.” Kael’s hands shook when he pulled three twenties from my bag. He only shook when he was nervous. He said the DMV always made him feel like a ghost. We were supposed to be happy. We were getting married. He grabbed my hand in the hallway. Marble floor. Echoes. His palm was warm, callused from the guitar. “We’re right on time,” he said. His watch said 2:11. It was always five minutes slow. He never fixed it. Said it kept him humble. That’s when it happened. His fingers were in mine. Then they weren’t. His hand didn’t slip. Didn’t let go. He was just… gone. The air where he’d been was warm for half a second. Then nothing. A man in a gray suit walked through the space where Kael’s chest had been. Didn’t bump him. Didn’t stop. Because there was nothing to bump. “Kael?” I said. My voice bounced off the walls. “Kael, this isn’t funny.” Cars passed outside. A bus hissed. Nobody looked at the empty space where my fiancé had been. I stood there with my hand out, still curled. “KAEL?” People looked at me like I was having a seizure. Concern. Distance. Calculation. They walked faster. I grabbed a woman in a blue coat. “Did you see him? He was right here. Tall. Dark hair. Gray hoodie. We were holding hands.” “Who?” she said. Not confused. Empty. “Kael Morrow. My fiancé. Ten seconds ago.” “There’s no one there.” She pulled away. Didn’t look back. I looked down. The sidewalk had a fresh c***k. Hairline. Right where he’d been standing. The number 42 was spray-painted under it. City marking. This morning, 7:42 AM, he’d pointed at the clock in bed. Red numbers on the ceiling. His arm around my waist. “We’re 42, Lina. The answer. To everything.” He said it because I was scared. Because my mom said three years wasn’t long enough. He held me until I stopped shaking. He smelled like sleep and Old Spice Fiji. Now I was standing alone. The c***k was between us. My phone buzzed. No number. No sender. Just black text on white. “There was no Kael Morrow.” I stared at it. “What?” I checked my contacts. No results. I typed K-A-E-L M-O-R-R-O-W. No results found. Did you mean Karen Morrow? No. I meant Kael. With the scar on his knuckle. With the laugh that started on the left side. My legs gave out. I sat on the sidewalk. On the c***k. The concrete was cold through my jeans. Wet from morning rain. For ten seconds, I just breathed. The way Kael taught me. Count to four, Lina. Hold it. Out for six. In the quiet, I could think. And thinking meant he was gone. Thinking meant the c***k was real and the text was real and the empty space in the air was real. I walked to Dolly’s Diner on Wabash. We’d gone there after our first date. Kael ordered the patty melt. I got pancakes. He stole half. It was raining. I chose a seat by the window. A waitress set a mug down. Coffee. Black. I hadn’t ordered. She didn’t ask my name. Just nodded and walked away. The mug was hot. Real. Pain was real. The c***k in the sidewalk was real. Around me, life continued. A man read a newspaper. The date said Tuesday, May 5, 2026. Music played. Upbeat. Summer. Beach. Girls. It felt obscene. I pulled out my phone. Opened my notes app. I typed. KAEL MORROW EXISTS. I WAS WITH HIM AT 2:00 PM. MICHIGAN AVE. HE WAS REAL. I stared at the screen. Counted to thirty. Nothing changed. No flicker, no deletion. The words stayed. Black on white. A sound came out of me. Broken. Like a hinge giving out. Normal was this morning. Normal was his arm around me. Normal was 7:42 AM. Normal was burned coffee. I locked the phone. Set it face down. My forehead was on the table. Cold. It smelled like bleach and old coffee. My reflection in the window looked small. Lost. I looked like someone who’d been dumped. Not someone whose fiancé vanished. “Please,” I said. My voice was thin. “Please don’t… I can’t forget him. Kael Morrow. That was his name. He has a scar on his knuckle. He hates tomatoes. He calls them ‘sad apples.’” My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out with both hands. New text. No sender. Lina Carter remember him I stared at it. Two lines. Not a command. Not a threat. A request. A plea. Then I heard him. Kael’s voice. From this morning. In bed. The sun through the blinds. He was tracing my collarbone. I’m not leaving you, Lina. I promise. Whatever happens. I’m not leaving. He didn’t leave. Something took him. I looked at the door. At the street. At the rain. “He was real,” I whispered. “He was real.” I shoved my phone in my jacket. Left the coffee. Walked out into the rain. I kept walking. Into the rain. My shoes were soaked. I didn’t care. Cold was real. Wet was real. Then I smelled it. Old Spice. Fiji. For one second, it was real. Behind me. Close. Like he’d just walked past. I turned. The street was empty. Just rain. Just cars. Just people with umbrellas who didn’t see me. But the smell was still there. Faint. On my jacket sleeve. Where his hand had been. Where he’d grabbed me and said We’re right on time. I pressed my sleeve to my face. The smell was still there. Old Spice. Salt. Him. Across the street, under the broken streetlight, a woman was standing. Soaked. Shaking. Watching. She looked at me. Then she checked her wrist. Lifted her arm. A silver watch. The glass caught the streetlight. The time was still wrong. 2:11. The same time Kael’s watch always showed. The time he checked when he was nervous. Kael was gone. The world said he never existed. The text said there was no Kael Morrow. But her watch said 2:11.