Reflections of Her

She told me she loved me. The next day, she disappeared.

No goodbye. No trace. Just a ghost in my memories, lingering in every place we had been together. I searched for her—filed reports, knocked on doors, chased whispers. But she had vanished like a dream upon waking.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Eventually, ten years blurred by. I learned to stop looking, though I never stopped wondering.

Then, this morning, it happened.

I was at my usual café, the kind of place where people come and go without a second glance. The barista called my name, and I reached for my coffee, absentmindedly stirring in the cream. As the liquid swirled, something shifted in the reflection.

A face.

Her face.

I froze, heart hammering against my ribs. It wasn’t a trick of the light, nor a fleeting illusion. She was there—her dark eyes staring back at me, lips slightly parted, as if she had been waiting for me to notice.

My breath hitched. My hands trembled. “Anna?” I whispered.

The reflection smiled.

Then, just as quickly as she appeared, the coffee stilled. And she was gone.

I jolted upright, knocking over my cup. Scalding liquid spread across the table, but I barely noticed. My mind was spinning, memories crashing down like a tidal wave.

She told me she loved me.

The next day, she disappeared.

And now—after ten long years—she was back.

Watching me.

Waiting.

But for what?