THINGS THAT SHOULDN’T BE
1317 Words
Chapter Two: Things That Shouldn’t Be
Anna said she’d stay with me for two weeks. Just until classes started again.
It wasn’t meant to be long, just long enough for me to get through the worst of it without doing something stupid like forgetting to eat or crying myself unconscious on the kitchen floor. She brought a small suitcase and her stubborn optimism, thinking I’d somehow start to recover if I was surrounded by someone who still had hope in the world.
But nothing felt hopeful anymore.
The house felt colder than it ever had.
Even with someone else in it, it was too quiet. Too hollow. There were pockets of him everywhere—his jacket on the hook, his toothbrush still in the cup, his scent buried deep in the bed I still refused to sleep in.
That morning, I took a long shower to clear my head. The water was too hot, too sharp on my skin, but I needed it. I stayed under the stream until the mirrors fogged up completely.
I wrapped myself in a towel and reached for the sink.
That’s when I saw it.
A handprint.
Right in the center of the mirror.
Pressed into the steam like someone had touched it just seconds before me. Five perfect fingers, slightly spread. And bigger than my hand. Something Dan used to do whenever he woke up after me and I was in the shower. That’s always how I knew he was awake.
My breath caught in my throat.
Anna was still asleep. I’d passed her door on the way to the bathroom. She snored softly with one leg hanging off the bed like she always did when she was in deep sleep. She hadn’t moved since last night.
So who—
I stared at the handprint until it faded with the steam. Then I backed out of the bathroom slowly, heart in my throat, and said nothing.
Not yet.
Not again.
That afternoon, I left my room to get tea and almost tripped over something by the coffee table.
I paused.
It was a book.
Not just any book—his book. The one he read over and over, dog-eared and falling apart. The one he said he wanted to pass down to our future kids, calling it a book that teaches you about love.
I hadn’t seen it since the funeral.
It had been on the bookshelf in our room, untouched. I remembered placing it there myself, spine lined up perfectly with the others. I’d avoided even glancing at it.
But now it was here.
I moved closer, slowly. My heart thrummed like a quiet warning drum in my chest.
I picked it up.
The book was open to a page somewhere near the middle. A passage was highlighted, the only mark in the entire thing. I knew, because Daniel hated people writing in books.
The line read: “And I’ll find a way to come back to you, even if it takes my last breath.”
A chill ran through me.
“Anna?” I called.
She walked in a second later, holding her phone.
I turned sharply, holding the book up. “Why would you take this out of the shelf?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“This book!” I said louder, voice rising. “Why would you go through my things? And why would you write in it?”
“I—I didn’t,” she stammered. “I haven’t even touched anything. Eleanor, I swear—”
“Don’t lie to me!” I snapped. “Just—stop touching things that don’t belong to you.”
Anna’s face froze. Shocked. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
I didn’t wait for her to explain. I turned and stormed upstairs, clutching the book to my chest.
Once inside my room, I shoved it back onto the shelf like it had burned me. Then I crossed the room, unlocked the sliding glass door that led to the balcony, and stepped outside.
The air was still damp from yesterday’s rain. The sky was overcast again, heavy and gray.
I sat down on the wooden bench Daniel and I always used. It faced the backyard—the little garden patch we’d talked about turning into a swing set someday.
He used to say, We’ll watch our kids from here, laughing. We’ll pretend we’re old and wise.
I was wearing his jacket again. The one that smelled like cedar and coffee and laundry detergent. It was the only thing that kept me warm lately.
My mind was spinning.
The handprint.
The book.
The highlighted words.
Things that shouldn’t be moving. Shouldn’t be changing.
Not without a living hand behind them.
The glass door behind me slid open.
I jumped.
Anna peeked her head through, her eyes softer now. “The kitchen pipe broke.”
I blinked. “What?”
“It just burst. There’s water on the floor.”
“I’ll get Dan—”
I stopped.
The words froze in my throat like ice.
Dan wasn’t here.
I’d said it without thinking. Without remembering. I looked up at her, stunned. My own voice betrayed me.
“Do you have a plumber’s number?” I asked gently.
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll call him.”
There was an awkward pause. She kept standing there.
“Want to go get dinner?” she offered. “It’s already past four. You haven’t left the house all day.”
I didn’t hesitate. I needed air. I needed distance. I needed to step out of Daniel’s shadow before it swallowed me whole.
“I’ll get dressed,” I said.
I threw on gray joggers and one of Daniel’s old plaid shirts, rolled the sleeves up, and tied my hair into a messy bun. I met Anna on the porch, and we drove in silence until we got to the drive-through.
She asked what I wanted, and I hesitated.
Daniel always ordered for me.
Always. At every restaurant. He memorized all my usuals like it was his personal mission. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d said the words out loud.
I blinked hard. “Double cheeseburger. No pickles. Large fries. Sweet tea.”
Anna didn’t comment. She just nodded and placed the order.
The drive home was quiet again.
Even the radio felt wrong.
When we got home, I went straight to the kitchen for a glass of water.
And then I froze.
On the kitchen table, next to the sink, was a tool.
A wrench.
Not just any wrench—the exact one Daniel always used to fix the sink when the pipe acted up. The red grip was chipped. His initials were scratched on the metal handle, barely visible but still there.
My stomach dropped.
I turned slowly toward the sink.
It wasn’t leaking anymore.
It was… fixed.
“Anna?” I called out, voice trembling.
“Yeah?” she called back from upstairs.
“Did you call the plumber already?”
“No! He said he couldn’t come till tomorrow morning!” she yelled.
I stood there, staring at the wrench like it might start levitating. Like it might talk to me.
No plumber came.
The wrench was out of the toolbox.
The pipe was fixed.
I spun around and bolted down the hallway to the laundry room, where we kept Daniel’s old tool bag.
I yanked it open and started digging through it like a woman possessed.
And there it was.
The wrench.
Another one.
Identical. Same red grip. Same scratches. Same everything.
I pulled it out and laid it on the floor beside the one from the kitchen.
They were exactly the same.
I stared at them both in shock, trying to breathe.
And all I could think was—
There’s only supposed to be one.
So where the hell did the second one come from?
- Writer
