Salt Crown

The coffee machine hisses. I press the button twice, always twice. A shadow moves in the hallway mirror—I stiffen, then realize it’s just me. Again. “My routine’s getting obsessive,” I mutter, pouring the coffee. A voicemail crackles through the speaker. Ellen’s voice, warm and sleepy: “Morning, Cam. Just checking in. Call me back... if you ever remember how.” I don't answer. I haven’t answered in weeks. I pull my blouse tight, adjusting the collar, when I hear him. “You always had a thing for white shirts,” he says. I freeze. It’s just a memory. Nate’s voice, lodged in the mirror like a ghost. I place my palms on the sink, inhale once, twice. “You still trying to disappear in plain sight?” I glare at the mirror. “No,” I whisper. “I’m trying to return unseen.” The mirror shows a different girl—one with softer eyes and a trace of salt on her cheek. But she’s long gone. A knock echoes from inside my head. Three sharp knocks—like it did that night the police came. My phone vibrates. A new message. No sender. “We found something. You’ll want to see this.” I stare at the salt bowl on the windowsill, untouched. “Fine,” I say out loud. “Let’s begin.” The drawer sticks. Always has. I tug harder and hear the scrape of paper. “Still hiding in there, aren’t you?” I whisper. Inside: my old ID, laminated like a scar. A headline folded twice. “Hale Family Implodes Amid Corporate Scandal.” The photo is faded. So is my face. I hold the ID next to my phone. “Clara Hale,” I read. Then glance at the screen. “Clara Rowe,” it says. I snort. “Cute trick.” My fingers hover over the ID. Then I hear it—soft, clean, devastating. “Camille Rosalind Hale.” I whip around. No one. Just her voice. My mother’s. Still in the walls. “I’m not her anymore,” I mutter. “Liar,” the mirror answers back. I drop the ID in the drawer and slam it shut. “Camille’s dead,” I say. “Clara’s going to work.” I swipe my lipstick across my mouth like war paint, yank open the door. And step out like the lie is truth. “Don’t forget your badge,” the doorman mumbles without looking up. “I never do.” I don’t smile. I never do. The city greets me with engine heat and cold wind. Steam hisses from vents. A girl in heels curses a cab. A man in a suit bumps me and keeps walking. “Watch it,” I mutter, brushing off his shoulder’s ghost. Footsteps echo between glass buildings. I match their rhythm without thinking. Everyone’s moving fast—no eye contact, no softness. “Clara!” someone shouts behind me. I don’t turn. It’s not my name. Not really. The Virex billboard flashes above the skyline. Their logo—a clean, bloodless crown. My jaw tightens. “Doesn’t it look better from the outside?” I glance sideways. A man lights a cigarette. Doesn’t meet my eyes. “You work there?” he asks. “No,” I lie. “Good. Place eats people.” He walks off. I keep walking. One more block. One more breath. My heels click like clock hands—sharp, steady, counting down. And I whisper, “They forgot me.” Then I smirk. “That’s why I’ll win.” “Badge?” The security guard barely looks up. I slide it across the scanner. “Morning,” I say. “New?” he asks. “Not really.” I smile like a stranger. The glass doors breathe open with a whisper. Inside, the air smells like cold chrome and money. The elevator dings. A woman in heels cuts ahead of me. Two executives talk loudly behind. “…Bianca wants numbers by noon. If she doesn’t see Q4’s margins—” “Tell her to look in a mirror,” the other laughs. Neither glances at me. “Excuse me?” A voice beside me. A girl, too bright-eyed. New intern. “What team are you on?” I tilt my head. “Research and compliance.” “Oh. I’m operations. I’m—” The elevator dings again. I step out without answering. My heels echo down the hall. Conversations blur behind tinted glass. No one sees me. No one remembers me. That’s how ghosts walk. And that’s exactly what I am. “Clara, those revisions done?” My manager doesn’t look up. “Already sent. Check line 23 for projected yield.” He grunts, eyes flicking past me like I’m part of the furniture. “Fast fingers. Quiet brain. Keep it that way.” I nod once. Smile never reaches my eyes. Click. Click. Scroll. My screen reflects blue on my glasses. Subject line: “FOR DESTRUCTION” Attached: internal folders, archived assets. I freeze when I see it. Hale Media | Case File 04B – Public Relations Incident “Problem?” a guy asks behind me. Another analyst. Young. Sharp. “No,” I say softly. “Just forgot how small the past looks when it’s zipped into a folder.” He chuckles. “Let it burn.” I copy it to my drive while sipping my coffee. File saved. Name buried. My hands still smell faintly of lavender soap and adrenaline. I murmur under my breath, “Burn later. But not before I bury you first.” “Everyone gone?” the janitor asks, pushing his cart down the hallway. “Just me,” I reply without looking up. The glow from my screen washes over my face. Fingers hover above the keys. I type: Rosalind Hale. No results. I lean back, whisper, “Figures.” New query: Victor Hale Access Restricted. I tilt my head. “Of course it is.” My hand tightens on the mouse. “Someone made sure this stayed buried.” Behind me, the janitor hums softly—out of tune, unaware. I tap the desk once. Then twice. Then still. “Camille,” I hear faintly—my mother’s voice, imagined or remembered. I reach for the file path again. “Come on… show me something.” Nothing. I close the window. Breathe in the silence. “Not yet,” I say aloud. “But I’m coming.” The system hums, unaware. The screen fades to black. Heels click behind me—sharp, deliberate. I don’t have to turn to know it’s her. Bianca Voss passes. Perfume like ambition. Her gaze brushes me, then lingers a second too long. “Do we know her?” her assistant asks. Bianca’s voice is silk-laced venom. “No. But she watches like she does.” “I heard she never speaks. Creepy, right?” the assistant whispers. Bianca smirks. “The quiet ones always are.” They don’t realize I’m a few steps behind. I shift my folder to my left hand. My knuckles barely graze the brushed steel wall. “Ignore it,” I mutter to myself, stepping into the elevator. Bianca glances back. Our eyes lock for a fraction—hers squint slightly, curious. The doors begin to close. Her mouth moves—almost a question. I smile. Just once. A slow, silent, surgical smile. And then the doors shut between us. The rooftop door creaks. No one ever comes up here. I kneel beside the rosemary bush. Fingers reach. Pluck. Rub. The scent clings—earthy, sharp. “You always said this place would outlive us,” I murmur. “Guess it has.” A breeze stirs the leaves. I press the crushed sprig to my wrist. “You said the city would forget us. That they'd smile while they erased our name.” I pause, tasting bitterness on the back of my tongue. “But I didn’t forget.” In my mind, her voice hums. “You remember everything too deeply, Camille.” “You say that like it’s a flaw,” I whisper. “Sometimes it is.” The sun shifts. Shadows stretch. “I’ll rewrite it, Mom. I’ll make them say it again. Hale.” The rosemary slips from my hand. I let it fall. And stand. The elevator chimes as I step back into the marble hush of the 32nd floor. Then—shoulder. Hot coffee sloshes over my wrist. “s**t. I’m sorry—” The voice drops into silence like it swallowed something it wasn’t ready to say. I glance up. A blur of navy suit and broad shoulders. Gone. My fingers still tremble from the jolt. Not the burn. “Nate?” I whisper to the air. Nothing. A passing exec eyes the spill. “Careful,” she says, stepping around me. “I’m fine,” I mutter. The hallway tilts for a breath. The space he left behind still pulses. He always did move like a ghost when he didn’t want to be seen. I touch the sleeve where his arm brushed mine. “Can’t be,” I say. But my heartbeat argues otherwise. A soft chime. One new message. NO SUBJECT. NO SENDER. INTERNAL ONLY. I mutter, “Spam filter’s slipping.” But the file name stops me: CASE_08_ROSALIND_HALE “Impossible,” I breathe. I double-click. The screen glitches—static lines, then a loaded PDF file. Redacted names. Dates I know too well. Attached memo blinks beneath: "Your mother tried. You were never alone." My voice cracks. “No… no, she—” A whisper cuts through the silence. “Camille. If you’re reading this…” “Mom?” I whisper, leaning closer. But the recording skips—then vanishes. “I didn’t know you left breadcrumbs.” I reach for the salt bowl on my desk. The lid clinks. “She fought for something,” I say aloud. “Now it’s my turn.” The cursor blinks back at me, steady and alive. I open the file properties. My fingers feel too slow. “Come on… show me who sent you,” I whisper. A hidden line of text appears—buried in the metadata. N.RIVERS “No.” I shove my chair back. “No, that’s not—” The name pulses. Unmistakable. Nate. My hand grazes my necklace—reflex, not comfort. The room feels smaller. “Why now?” I clench my jaw. “You promised you’d never come back.” The memory sucker-punches me—Nate’s hand gripping mine, suit too big for his skinny arms. “I’ll come back for you.” He said it with tears in his eyes. I wanted to believe it. I stare at the screen like it might apologize. “You knew,” I whisper. “You’ve always known.” The screen flickers once. Then stills. And I… don’t. The form blinks on my screen. Name: Clara Rowe I stare at it for too long. Then— Click. Delete. Each letter disappears like I’m peeling off skin. I type slowly: Camille Rosalind Hale Every syllable lands like a bell toll. “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?” I whisper. The cursor waits. So does the silence. “Too loud. Too... remembered.” I lean back. “You’re not ready,” I tell the screen. Or myself. The cursor pulses. Dares me. “I said you’re not ready,” I repeat, louder. “You don’t get to come back yet.” My hand shakes. I reach for the delete key. One press. The name vanishes again. I whisper, “Not yet.” The screen dims. The office light flickers once—just enough to make the room feel colder. I reach for the drawer. It clicks open like it remembers me. The salt bowl waits. I place the encrypted drive beside it. The metal clinks against ceramic. “You knew,” I say softly. “You always knew I’d come back here.” The silence doesn’t argue. “Was this your plan? Did you plant the seeds in case I lived?” I close the drawer slowly. “Because I did, Mom. I lived. But I didn’t forget.” I turn toward the window. My reflection stares back—familiar, but not mine. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.” The glass catches my breath. My voice leaves nothing behind. Cut to black.