The key turned in the lock, but the door was already open.

Sarah's hand froze on the knob. She'd locked it this morning—three times, like always. The habit born from living alone in the city for six years wasn't something she forgot.

She pushed the door wider with her foot, phone already in her hand, 911 typed but not sent. The apartment looked exactly as she'd left it. Laptop closed on the coffee table. Yesterday's mug still in the sink. The throw blanket she'd meant to fold still draped over the armchair.

Nothing was missing. Nothing was different.

Except the smell.

Coffee. Fresh coffee.

Her machine sat on the counter, the carafe half-full, steam still rising. She never made coffee before work—only after, when she got home. And she'd been gone for nine hours.

The rational part of her brain cycled through explanations: a neighbor with a key, a maintenance worker, a gas leak causing hallucinations. But the mug sitting beside the carafe stopped every theory cold.

It was her mug. The chipped one with the faded bookstore logo that she'd bought in college. The one she'd thrown away last week because the handle had finally broken off completely.

She picked it up. The ceramic was warm. The handle was intact.

A folded piece of paper sat underneath.

Her hands shook as she opened it. The handwriting was hers—the way she'd written in high school, before she'd switched to typing everything, before her hand had learned to form letters differently.

I fixed it. You were going to need it. —S

She looked up at the window. In the glass, her reflection stared back.

But just for a moment—just one moment before her eyes could adjust—the reflection's lips had been moving.

And Sarah's mouth had been closed.

#fiction #shortstory #thriller #mystery