My Husband Knows How I Die

Episode 2: The Memory That Woke Up

“He was there too.”

The words should have meant nothing.

Instead, they tore something open inside me.

I stared at Adrian.

He stared back.

Behind the locked bedroom door, the voice had gone silent.

My mother's voice.

My dead mother's voice.

And then there was only the sound of rain against the window.

I didn't remember it raining.

I didn't remember walking toward the window either.

One moment I was standing beside Adrian.

The next, my fingers were pressed against the cold glass.

A reflection stared back at me.

White dress.

Pale face.

Dark hair falling over my shoulders.

My reflection looked like a bride.

But her eyes looked terrified.

“Elena.”

Adrian's voice came from somewhere behind me.

I didn't turn around.

There was something wrong with the reflection.

For a second, I thought it moved before I did.

I blinked.

The room disappeared.

I was small.

That was the first thing I knew.

My feet didn't touch the floor when I sat on the edge of the bed.

The room was different.

Smaller.

Older.

The walls were covered with faded flowers.

There was a crack in the ceiling above me.

I knew that crack.

I used to count its branches whenever I was afraid.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

If I reached ten before the sound came again, I told myself everything would be all right.

I counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

The sound came.

My entire body went still.

A door closing somewhere downstairs.

Not loudly.

Carefully.

As if whoever had entered the house didn't want anyone to know.

Four.

Five.

Six.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Maybe if I didn't move, nobody would remember I was there.

That was what I had learned.

Children weren't supposed to know how to disappear.

But I had learned.

I knew which floorboards creaked.

I knew how to breathe quietly.

I knew how to press my face into my pillow so nobody could hear me crying.

I knew how to keep my toys hidden.

And I knew that if my mother ever told me to go to my room and lock the door—

I should never ask why.

That night, I had asked.

“Mama?”

No answer.

I was sitting beside my bed with a doll in my lap.

One of her arms was missing.

I had named her Lily.

My mother hated that doll.

She said it was dirty.

She said I should throw it away.

But I kept her hidden beneath the mattress.

“Mama?”

Still nothing.

The hallway outside my room was dark.

I could see a thin line of light beneath the door.

Someone was walking past it.

A shadow crossed the floor.

Then stopped.

My heart stopped with it.

I hugged Lily against my chest.

The shadow didn't move.

I waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The doorknob turned.

I screamed.

The door opened.

My mother stood there.

For one terrible moment, I didn't recognize her.

Her hair was messy.

Her face was pale.

Her eyes were red.

She looked at me as if she had been crying.

But my mother didn't cry.

Not in front of me.

She closed the door quickly.

“Why aren't you sleeping?”

“I was waiting for you.”

Her face changed.

Something soft appeared there.

Then disappeared.

“I told you to sleep.”

“I heard someone.”

Her eyes moved toward the door.

“You heard what?”

“Someone came.”

She walked toward me.

Too quickly.

I dropped Lily.

My mother stopped.

She looked down at the doll.

Then at me.

“Elena.”

Her voice was quiet.

I hated when she used that voice.

“What?”

“Who did you hear?”

I looked at the door.

“I don't know.”

She grabbed my chin.

Not hard.

Not enough to hurt.

But hard enough that I couldn't look away.

“Think.”

I began crying.

“Mama, you're hurting me.”

Her fingers loosened immediately.

She stepped back.

For one second, she looked ashamed.

Then the fear returned.

“You didn't see anyone?”

I shook my head.

“Did anyone talk to you?”

“No.”

“Did you open the door?”

“No.”

Her eyes searched mine.

She was looking for something.

I didn't know what.

“No one came inside?”

I wanted to say no.

I should have said no.

Instead, I looked down.

At Lily.

At the missing arm.

At the dirty dress.

And I remembered.

A hand.

White.

Not pale.

Covered.

A white glove.

Holding my doll.

My mouth opened.

My mother saw my face change.

“Elena?”

I began to shake.

“What did you remember?”

“I…”

“Tell me.”

I couldn't.

Because suddenly I could smell him.

Not perfume.

Not cigarettes.

Something sharp.

Clean.

Like rain on metal.

I covered my nose.

My mother grabbed both my shoulders.

“Elena!”

I screamed.

The memory broke apart.

“Elena.”

Someone was calling my name.

I ignored them.

I was back in the old house.

Back in my room.

My mother was in front of me.

But she was younger.

So was I.

Her hands were shaking.

“Don't remember,” she whispered.

I stared at her.

“What?”

“Whatever you think you saw.”

“Mama—”

“Don't remember it.”

Her voice cracked.

I had never heard my mother sound so frightened.

“I saw—”

She slapped her hand over my mouth.

My body froze.

Not because it hurt.

Because I knew what would happen next.

I knew she would apologize.

She always apologized.

That was the worst part.

Her anger was frightening.

But her apologies were worse.

She would cry.

She would hold me.

She would tell me she loved me.

And I would believe her.

Because I was a child.

And children believed the people they needed.

My mother removed her hand.

I stared at her.

Tears filled her eyes.

“I love you.”

I didn't answer.

“Elena, I love you more than anything.”

The words sounded rehearsed.

She said them as if she needed me to believe them.

As if my believing them could make them true.

“I know.”

My voice was small.

Her face broke.

She pulled me into her arms.

I stayed still.

I didn't hug her back.

Because something had changed.

I loved my mother.

I did.

But sometimes love felt like standing beside a deep hole in the dark.

You knew it was dangerous.

You knew you could fall.

But you stayed close because someone you loved was standing on the other side.

That night, she rocked me in her arms.

And hummed.

The same song.

The one I had heard outside my bedroom door.

My skin crawled.

I tried to move away.

She held me tighter.

“Mama.”

“Sleep.”

“I don't want to.”

“You have to.”

“Why?”

Her humming stopped.

The silence became heavy.

Then she whispered—

“Because when you sleep, you forget.”

I stared at her.

She smiled.

But it wasn't my mother's smile.

It was too tired.

Too empty.

“That's what you need to do now.”

“What?”

“Forget.”

A bang shook the room.

I screamed.

But it wasn't my childhood bedroom anymore.

It was the present.

The bathroom door had slammed against the wall.

I was standing in front of the mirror.

My hands were gripping the sink.

Water was running.

When had I turned it on?

“Elena!”

Adrian's voice.

Closer now.

“Don't touch me.”

The words came out before I understood why.

Adrian froze in the doorway.

His face changed.

“I wasn't going to.”

I looked at him.

My chest rose and fell too quickly.

I couldn't catch my breath.

There was blood in the sink.

For one second, I stared at it.

Red water.

Red.

Red.

I screamed and stepped back.

Adrian crossed the room.

“Elena!”

“Don't!”

He stopped immediately.

His eyes moved to my hands.

I followed them.

There was no blood.

Only water.

My nails had dug into my palm.

Small red crescents marked my skin.

I stared at them.

And suddenly I was six again.

The man in the white gloves was standing in the hallway.

I couldn't see his face.

I could never see his face.

The memory always stopped there.

But I remembered his voice.

“Good girl.”

My stomach twisted.

I pressed both hands against my ears.

“No.”

“Elena, look at me.”

“No!”

“Elena.”

I shook my head.

“Stop saying my name.”

His face tightened.

“I need you to look at me.”

“Don't.”

“Elena.”

His voice became firmer.

I hated that I listened.

I slowly lifted my head.

He was standing a few feet away.

Close enough to reach me.

Far enough that I could run.

For some reason, that mattered.

“Tell me what you remembered,” he said.

“No.”

“You were somewhere else.”

“No.”

“You were remembering something.”

“Stop.”

“Elena.”

I laughed.

The sound frightened me.

“You know everything, don't you?”

His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“You know when I'm going to die.”

He said nothing.

“You knew not to answer the call.”

Still nothing.

“You knew about the man in white.”

His jaw tightened.

“And now you want me to tell you what I remember?”

“Elena, I'm trying to help you.”

“Why?”

He looked at me.

The question seemed to hurt him.

“Why are you trying to help me?”

“Because you need help.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“Because you're my wife.”

I laughed again.

A sharp, ugly sound.

“That's the worst answer you could have given me.”

His face went cold.

“Why?”

“Because you weren't there when I needed a husband.”

The words escaped before I could stop them.

I didn't know what I meant.

But Adrian did.

I saw it.

His eyes changed.

He looked away.

And the room went silent.

My heart began beating harder.

“What?”

“Elena.”

“What did I just say?”

“Nothing.”

“No.”

I stepped toward him.

“Something happened.”

He didn't answer.

“Something happened between us.”

“Don't do this.”

“DO WHAT?”

“Don't force yourself to remember.”

The room became completely silent.

I stared at him.

My skin turned cold.

“What did you say?”

He realized it immediately.

The mistake.

His face hardened.

I whispered—

“You know what happened to me.”

“No.”

“You know.”

“Elena—”

“You know what happened to me!”

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then darkness swallowed the bathroom.

I screamed.

Adrian's hand found mine.

I tried to pull away.

But then—

The memory came back.

The hallway was dark.

I was hiding behind the staircase.

I couldn't remember why.

My knees hurt.

My hand was pressed over my mouth.

Someone was walking upstairs.

Slowly.

One step.

Then another.

I could see only his shoes.

White.

Clean.

Perfect.

They stopped.

A shadow stretched across the wall.

I closed my eyes.

Don't see me.

The floor creaked.

I pressed myself farther into the darkness.

Then—

A hand reached around the corner.

White glove.

My scream disappeared beneath someone's palm.

I couldn't see his face.

I never saw his face.

I remembered my mother's voice.

Somewhere downstairs.

Screaming my name.

I remembered trying to kick.

Trying to bite.

Trying to run.

The man whispered something into my ear.

I couldn't remember the words.

Maybe my mind had buried them.

Maybe I had buried them myself.

Then I saw a door.

A locked door.

And darkness behind it.

I remembered being told to be quiet.

I remembered crying until my throat hurt.

I remembered someone saying—

“Good girls don't tell stories.”

The words entered my bones.

I didn't remember what happened after.

Only the sound.

A clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

And my mother's voice.

Far away.

Calling my name.

Then nothing.

“Elena!”

Adrian's voice ripped through the darkness.

My eyes flew open.

The lights were back.

I was on the bathroom floor.

Adrian was kneeling in front of me.

He wasn't touching me.

His hands hovered near my shoulders.

As if he wanted to hold me but was afraid.

“Elena.”

My breathing came in broken pieces.

I stared at him.

For a second, I didn't know who he was.

His face was unfamiliar.

The room was unfamiliar.

Everything was too bright.

“Elena, can you hear me?”

I looked at his mouth.

Then his eyes.

“Who are you?”

The question broke something inside him.

I saw it.

He swallowed.

“Adrian.”

I stared.

“My husband.”

The word sounded strange.

I looked down.

At my wedding dress.

A memory returned.

A church.

A ring.

A promise.

A man standing across from me.

Adrian.

My husband.

My husband knew how I died.

I began laughing.

“Elena?”

My laugh became a sob.

Adrian finally reached for me.

I didn't move away.

He pulled me against his chest.

For one second, I let him.

His heartbeat was loud beneath my ear.

Fast.

Human.

Real.

I closed my eyes.

And hated myself for feeling safe.

Because safety was always temporary.

I had learned that when I was six.

I pulled away.

Adrian looked at me.

“What happened?”

I wiped my face.

“I don't know.”

“Yes, you do.”

I shook my head.

“I saw a house.”

His expression changed.

“My house.”

He didn't speak.

“My mother was there.”

“Elena—”

“And someone else.”

His eyes became dark.

“Who?”

I swallowed.

“A man.”

His jaw tightened.

“What man?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“Did you see anything?”

I closed my eyes.

White gloves.

A locked door.

A clock.

My mother crying.

A voice.

Good girls don't tell stories.

I opened my eyes.

“He wore white.”

Adrian stopped breathing.

I saw it.

The tiny movement in his chest.

The way his fingers curled.

My heart began pounding.

“You knew.”

“No.”

“You knew!”

“I suspected.”

I stared at him.

“What does that mean?”

His phone rang.

We both looked at it.

The screen glowed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

I backed away.

Adrian didn't answer.

The phone stopped.

Then a message appeared.

He picked it up.

I watched his face.

The color disappeared.

“What?”

He didn't answer.

I grabbed his wrist.

“Adrian, what does it say?”

He looked at me.

Then handed me the phone.

There was a photograph.

Old.

Blurry.

A little girl stood beside a staircase.

I knew her immediately.

Me.

Six years old.

My stomach dropped.

Behind me stood a shadow.

A tall man.

His face was hidden.

But his hand rested on my shoulder.

A white glove.

I stopped breathing.

Below the photograph was a message.

SOME MEMORIES SHOULD HAVE STAYED BURIED.

My fingers shook.

Another message arrived.

I didn't want to open it.

But my thumb moved anyway.

There was a voice recording.

I pressed play.

Static.

Then breathing.

Slow.

Heavy.

And finally, a man's voice.

Older.

Calm.

Almost amused.

“Good girls don't tell stories, Elena.”

The phone fell from my hand.

I backed into the wall.

Adrian picked it up.

His face was darker than I had ever seen it.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He didn't answer.

“Adrian.”

He looked at me.

There was fear in his eyes.

But not the same fear as before.

This time—

He looked angry.

Furious.

As if he had been waiting for this.

“Pack a bag,” he said.

I stared at him.

“What?”

“We're leaving.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere he can't find you.”

My heart stopped.

“Who?”

Adrian moved toward the door.

I grabbed his arm.

“WHO IS HE?”

His eyes met mine.

And for the first time, Adrian told me the truth.

Or at least part of it.

“The man who destroyed your childhood.”

My fingers loosened.

He turned toward the bedroom.

Then stopped.

Something was wrong.

The bedroom door was open.

We had locked it.

I knew we had.

Adrian stared into the darkness beyond it.

I whispered—

“Adrian?”

He raised one hand.

Telling me to stay quiet.

I heard it then.

A soft sound.

From somewhere inside the bedroom.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The antique clock.

But it had stopped earlier.

I knew it had.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Adrian slowly walked forward.

I followed despite his warning.

The bedroom was empty.

The window was closed.

The curtains moved gently.

But there was no wind.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I looked toward the clock.

Its hands were moving backward.

I stopped.

Adrian stopped.

Then I saw something beneath it.

A small object resting on the floor.

A doll.

Old.

Dirty.

Missing one arm.

Lily.

My childhood doll.

The one I had hidden beneath my mattress.

My throat closed.

“No.”

Adrian looked at me.

“What is it?”

I couldn't move.

“That doll.”

“Elena?”

I slowly stepped closer.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely pick it up.

There was something tied around Lily's neck.

A piece of paper.

I opened it.

Only one sentence was written there.

I TOLD YOU TO FORGET.

The lights went out again.

I screamed.

This time, Adrian grabbed me immediately.

His arms locked around me.

But something was wrong.

The man holding me—

Wasn't breathing.

I froze.

Adrian's voice came from somewhere across the room.

“Elena!”

My blood turned to ice.

Because Adrian wasn't holding me.

Someone else was.

And in the darkness beside my ear, a familiar voice whispered—

“Good girls don't tell stories.”