Notes from a Night I Don’t Fully Remember

I didn’t notice it at first. Change doesn’t announce itself. Not really. It doesn’t kick the door in or make promises it can’t keep. It just… arrives. Slips into the empty seat beside you like a stranger in a crowded train station—close enough to feel, easy enough to ignore. So I ignored it. I kept scribbling in my notebook, one thought chasing the next, no shape to any of it. Just movement. Just noise. It was past midnight. My eyes burned. My hands cramped. And Guppy—Guppy reminded me, loudly, that her litter box needed changing. No patience. No grace. Funny how something that small can pull you back from the edge of your own head. I changed the litter, washed my hands, and came back to the page. That’s when it shifted.

I looked at the notebook and decided I wasn’t going to choose. A story. An essay. Something else I didn’t have a name for yet. All of it. So I wrote. Straight. No chaser. No polishing. No second-guessing. Just the truth the way I’d lived it—uncomfortable, uneven, mine. And then something opened. Everything I’d read, seen, heard… it was there. Not as memory. Not as reference. As if it had been waiting. I could feel it lining up behind the words.

I looked up from my notebook.

The train station was empty.

A woman was walking away, her footsteps the only sound left in the room. Slow. Measured. Certain. I turned, trying to follow the sound, but there was nowhere for her to go. No doors. No exits. Just space where she should have been.

And then the footsteps stopped.

I sat there, listening.

The clock on the wall took over—each second grinding forward with a hard, shifting sound, like tiny workers buried inside it, cranking the hands inch by inch.

I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there.
Didn’t know if I had moved at all.

The sound of fluttering wings filled my office, but I didn’t look up right away. Guppy did. She let out a sharp, offended meow before hopping onto the desk, then down into my lap like she owned both the space and whatever had just passed through it. “Can’t you see I’m working?” I asked. Didn’t matter. She turned once, twice, then settled—final say. I shifted, adjusted, gave in. There’s a rule about that, unwritten but absolute. A cat chooses your lap, you don’t move. Not for discomfort. Not for reason. Not even for sense. I used to think there was a time limit attached—ten minutes, maybe fifteen, something measurable. But sitting there, hands still, the room too quiet, I couldn’t remember the number. Couldn’t remember if there ever was one. Guppy’s weight anchored me in place, and for the first time all night, I wasn’t sure if I was staying still because of her… or because something else in the room wanted me to.

I was wrong.

Not a little.

Completely.

The fluttering grew louder.

Guppy’s claws sank into my thigh, sharp enough to anchor me. She let out a low, uneasy sound, looking back at me like I was the one out of place.

The room shifted.

I knew this place.

This is where I go when the story comes.

Only this time—

it didn’t come alone.

Voices layered over each other, pressing in. Not words at first—just presence. Then fragments. A street folding in on itself. Something blooming where it shouldn’t.

And the woman—

closer now.

Or maybe I was.

The noise swelled, crowding the edges of everything I thought I understood.

I exhaled. Slow. Forced.

Held on to that one thread.

The rest didn’t disappear—

but it bent.

Aligned.

Waited.

The picture sharpened.

Not clear. Not safe.

But enough.

I picked up the pen.

And this time—

I didn’t pretend the words were mine.

The pages are filled.

My handwriting.

…I think.

I lean closer.

What is this?

I don’t recognize what’s on the page. The lines twist into something older than language—symbols that feel familiar in the wrong way. Like something I’ve seen before but was never meant to read. It reminds me of those ancient books—the ones that never made it to the shelves. The ones kept behind the desk, clutched in the arms of that librarian. The one who always watched a little too closely.

“Are we going to behave today, Master Khan?”

Her voice—calm, precise. Not a question. Never was.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I hear it before I remember saying it.

She scoffs. A small sound, sharp enough to cut. Then the look—that same scowl that made you sit up straighter whether you wanted to or not.

“Peppermint?”

Always peppermint.

Always after.

The sun has faded. Night has returned. The glow from my desk lamp is too much—pressing in, bleaching the edges of everything. I turn it down before it burns through my eyes. Something moves at the edge of my vision. I turn. Nothing. The cigarette smoke thickens, curling slow through the room, clinging to the light. I take it in. The scent is wrong. Not American. Turkish, maybe. Or something older. Something I don’t remember lighting.

“Excuse me, Mr. Khan. Do you think you can help me?”

The voice comes from the shadows.

I look around the room, slow, deliberate—trying to catch movement before it disappears.

Nothing.

“I need you to tell my life story,” the voice continues.

Still nothing.

I strike a match. Light a cigarette. Draw it in deep, hold it there like it might steady something.

Exhale.

Then a sip of coffee.

Cold.

Of course it is.

“Why in the hell would I want to do that?” I ask.

Guppy hisses. Low. Sharp.

I look up.

And there she is.

Standing like she’s always been there.

Too much to take in at once. Too many details competing for attention—like she brought her own gravity into the room and everything else had to adjust around it. Every part of her felt… intentional. Nothing wasted. Nothing accidental.

My first instinct was simple.

Run.

Get the hell out. Find a church. A monastery. Somewhere quiet where stories don’t follow you home.

But then the thought hit—

Who’s going to look after Guppy?

I didn’t move.

I stayed.

Who is she?

A memory of a forgotten love? A glance across a crowded room that never quite left? Or something pulled from a story I never finished?

…Doesn’t matter.

She wears a wide straw hat, the brim low enough to hide most of her face. What little I can see isn’t enough to hold onto—but the way she moves… that says everything. Measured. Certain. Like she’s been here before. Like she knew I would be.

She pulls out a chair. Sits. No hesitation. No permission asked.

The room shifts around her, like it’s adjusting to a weight it didn’t expect.

She leans in, close enough to blur the edges of everything else.

“Just write,” she whispers.

Like it was never up to me.

And I do.

Now I’m back in my office.

The coffee cup sits where I left it. A cigarette burns slow in the ashtray, curling smoke into the stale air like it’s been waiting on me.

I look around.

How did I get here?

For a moment, I don’t move. Just stand there, listening—half expecting to hear something… or someone.

Nothing comes.

So I sit down at the desk. Open the notebook. The pages are filled.

My handwriting.

…I think.

Guppy gives a quick, impatient meow as she shifts in my lap, settling in like she’s been there the whole time.

I start entering the notes into the computer, pecking at the keys in that old, stubborn way of mine. Slow. Uneven. Familiar.

It takes a while.

But it’ll be alright.

It usually is.

I pause, fingers hovering over the keys.

The room is quiet again.

Too quiet.

And for just a second—

I could swear I hear it.

Footsteps.

Fading.