Sharon D. Mertins

“The first time it happened, there was a woman staring at the shelf next to me. She had short hair and was wearing a blue shirt. When Alexei saw her he leaned in and whispered, “Claire?”

I was inhaling, pressing an old book to my nose, smelling the dust, old paper, every finger that caressed it. “What?”

“Do you think she weel turn?”

Alexei speaks with an accent that I can’t place. But he won’t tell me where he’s from. Or, like me, he can’t remember.

The woman looked at us, then back at the shelf, then back at us nervously but without moving her head. She was panting. I put the book down, pushed Alexei back and hurried up the stairs.

She disappeared the next day.”

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