Never Meet

The House on the Edges of Rome

The clue came by accident. Or fate.

A local gallery owner recognized her

"the woman from the London show, the

one with the photographs of the man who

doesn't exist."

He said it kindly, as though it were poetry

instead of madness.

Then he told her there was a place outside

the city -a house, once rented by a

foreigner who looked just like the man in

her pictures. An hour later, she stood at the gates. The villa was overgrown, the walls pale with

neglect.

She almost turned back. But then she saw

the door - unlocked.

Inside, dust and light.

A camera on the table.

And on the wall - dozens of photographs.

Her.

In London.

Working. Sleeping. Walking.

Each one taken from a distance.

Her knees nearly gave way. The camera

whirred once, as if waking.

She turned - nothing there.

Just the still air and her own breath. Then her phone buzzed again. No number. No name. Just one image.

The photo of her standing inside that very

room, taken from behind. She ran until the sun sank. Back to the city, back to light, back to

people. But the feeling followed her - the

eyes, the watching, the impossible overlap

of her memories with his gaze.

That night, she checked into a small hotel.

Drew the curtains. Turned her phone face-

down.

She told herself it was over. That she

would fly home tomorrow, delete everything, and start again. At dawn, she woke to smoke.

Her phone was glowing - hot, faintly

burning at the edges. On the scree

image flickered again and again:

the café table, two cups, both half full.

And then, for the first time, words she

hadn't seen before:

"You shouldn't have come back."

The phone went dark. The room smelled of

burned metal.

When she looked in the mirror, she noticed

a fine trace of ash along her collarbone

as though someone had touched her there,

and vanished.