Her Mother's Other Life

Mae stared at the diary.

Black leather. No frills. Just one name in faded silver script: Gwen.

She didn't know a Gwen. Didn't remember anyone by that name hanging around her mum, not in the hospital, not at the funeral, not ever. And Mae remembered everyone. She'd made a list once, desperate to make sense of what was left behind. Gwen wasn't on it.

Her gut twisted.

Should've left it outside, she thought. Shabby, no return label, and totally giving cursed-object vibes.

But it was from her mother,

and that changed everything.

Maybe her mum wanted to tell her something she never could before she died. Maybe she'd run out of time. Mae had always suspected there were things unspoken, tucked behind her mother's too-quiet smiles.

After dinner, her mum used to disappear into her tiny writing corner, tea in one hand, soft cloth wiping down the kitchen counters that always smelled like that weird blue soap. Then she'd sit at her desk, candle lit (always a candle, never a lamp), scribbling in silence.

Mae remembered the one time she caught her at it.

The room had smelled like vanilla and cedar, her mum's signature. Her hair was clean and curled, a soft gown brushing her ankles. She looked like a woman out of time.

"Mae, my dear," she'd said without turning. "Come in."

Mae had hesitated in the doorway, heart drumming.

Then her mum turned, blocking the desk, subtle, but intentional.

"Anything you need, baby?"

Mae never got an answer to the question she should've asked.

And now here she was, alone, staring at a book with her mother's secrets sealed inside.

This is so fucking stupid, she thought. Talking to a dead woman through a diary? What's next, astral Zoom calls?

The necklace on her chest, her mother's, pulsed again. A soft throb of warmth. Too warm. Like it was listening.

Mae didn't even like snakes. But this one, the tiny coiled serpent wrapped around a red stone, had been her mother's favorite. And now, weirdly, it glowed whenever she felt... anything too deeply.

Magic? Probably not. Her dad's techy friend once said emotional feedback jewelry was the new wave. Maybe this was one of those things. Biohacked grief chic.

Still. It pulsed.

"Okay," she muttered, "let's do this."

She picked up the pen and hovered over the page.

Where are you, Mum? I thought you were dead.

The ink dissolved.

Then the page darkened slightly, as if exhaling, and new words began to bleed through, smoke-like.

I am, Mae. I am dead. But I'm alive somewhere else.

Mae's breath caught. Her hands shook, but she wrote again.

What does that mean?

A beat. Then:

I'll explain later. But I need your help.

Mae frowned.

Help with what? Do you even know what this diary is?

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The doorbell.

Three quick chimes. Only one person rang like that.

Sylvie.

Her tutor, slash therapist, slash human disaster. Currently soaked. Hair ruined. Umbrella absolutely deceased. Mascara trailing down her face like she just got rejected from Hogwarts.

"Mae," she said, dragging herself inside. "I just got flash-flooded by a pissed-off cumulonimbus."

Mae smirked. "You look like a soggy Shakespeare character."

"I am a soggy Shakespeare character," Sylvie huffed, dumping her bag with flair. "But I come bearing gifts. Behold, scone. Massive. Likely haunted. Like your unresolved trauma."

Mae laughed. "You always know what I mean."

Sylvie grinned. But it didn't reach her eyes. Something about her energy faltered, like a lightbulb flickering just before it dies.

She made her way to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Oh, God, yes," Mae said. "Actually, I... I have something to tell you."

Sylvie poured the water, eyes fixed on the kettle, like it might offer her answers. Then she closed her eyes.

"I'm really glad you're here," Mae said gently. "You teaching me... it means a lot."

Too long of a pause.

"Means a lot," Sylvie echoed, but the words felt empty. Hollow. Like someone else was wearing her voice.

Mae blinked.

This wasn't Sylvie. Not the one who ranted about sentence fragments like they were a moral failing. Not the one who brought her sad snacks and emotional weather forecasts.

But now...

"I teach teenagers who think Hamlet's a YouTuber," Sylvie muttered. "My son told me I sigh too loud. Sigh, Mae. I sigh. That's who I've become."

Mae opened her mouth.

But Sylvie was already moving. Already gone.

"I should've opened a dog café," she added. "Dogs pretend to care."

She grabbed her bag.

"I have to go. I'm done for today."

"But" Mae started.

"No, Mae," she said, voice sharp. "I'm done. I know how you feel about me. Teaching you? That's all it ever was. There's nothing left for me here."

And just like that, she was gone.

Mae stood frozen.

The air felt different, thicker somehow, like the house was holding its breath. Her necklace pulsed again against her chest, a slow rhythmic beat that wasn't hers.

"Why are you doing that?" she muttered under her breath. "Yeah, I'm scared, congratulations. The diary's talking, Sylvie stormed out, and now my grief has a heartbeat. So unless you're going to give me answers, knock it off."

Then it came.

A voice, soft and unfamiliar, as if it had been waiting for the right moment to break the silence.

"Mae."

She turned.

A man stood in the hallway.

Tall. Unmoving.

He didn't look like someone who had walked into the room, but rather like someone who had always been there, just beyond her awareness. The curtains near the window whipped violently from the wind outside. The window itself was wide open.

And he, impossibly, looked untouched.

He was breathtaking, but not in the way of warmth or comfort. He was striking in the way of a storm forming over open water. His features were sharp and perfectly symmetrical, skin pale like moonlight, dark curls that should have been tousled but weren't. His eyes burned red, the color of embers just before a fire reignites.

Mae's voice caught in her throat.

"You came through the window?" she whispered. "What are you, a Victorian burglar with good hair?"

He tilted his head, one brow raised in amusement.

"Well, that's rude," he said smoothly. "Most people at least offer a cup of tea before accusing me of crimes."

"I'm calling the police," she said flatly, reaching for her phone with trembling fingers.

He blinked.

And in the space between one breath and the next, he was no longer across the room.

He was right in front of her.

No footsteps. No warning.

He moved like time bent around him, like he existed slightly out of sync with the laws of reality.

Mae gasped and stumbled back, heart thudding wildly. He reached out, not aggressively, and plucked the phone from her hand with an almost courteous ease. His fingers brushed hers.

They were warm. Too warm. The heat lingered on her skin.

He studied her.

"Your pulse is quickening," he said. "And yet, you're not screaming. Impressive."

Mae stared up at him, frozen between fear and fascination. "What are you?"

He smiled, slow and wicked.

"Now there's the right question," he said. "Though usually that comes after 'Are you real?' and just before 'How do I make you leave?'"

She backed away slightly, her eyes never leaving his.

"You're not human," she said.

"No," he replied, calm as if discussing the weather. "But neither are you, not completely. Not anymore."

Mae blinked. "Excuse me?"

He looked her over with a kind of amused calculation.

"That necklace isn't just pretty," he said. "It's binding, enchanted, and old. And right now, it's trying to tell you someting."

Mae's hand flew to the pendant, now pulsing steadily, as if it recognized his presence.

"I don't know what you are," she said, voice trembling.

"And that," he replied, "is why you should be listening, not threatening to call the police."

"You're insane," Mae said. "This is insane."

He shrugged with maddening ease.

"Mortals love pretending normal is safe," he said. "You're surrounded by magic and think it's mood swings or faulty wiring."

Mae's brain tried to keep up. The air in the room hummed with tension, like the moment before lightning hits the ground.

"You're making this up," she said. "This is some kind of sick joke."

"If it is," he said with a grin, "then I deserve an Oscar and a raise. Neither of which exist where I'm from, sadly."

"Where are you from?" she asked, voice cracking.

His smile widened, dark and knowing.

"Oh, Mae," he said, "you wouldn't believe me even if I showed you."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Then try me."

He stepped forward again, and for a second, something flickered behind his gaze. Something ancient, something not meant to be seen.

Mae took a shaky step back.

"I'll come back," he said quietly. "You'll need time. And questions will come. They always do."

He turned, walked toward the window, and paused.

"But for now," he added, "stop writing in that diary after midnight. She won't be the only one answering."

And just like that, he vanished.

Mae blinked. Her breath hitched.

The room was silent.

Empty.

She let out a shaky breath, spine pressing against the wall, the pendant still warm beneath her shirt.

Then, cold air brushed the back of her neck.

Her eyes widened.

She spun around.

He was behind her.

Closer now.

Too close.

"Also," he whispered near her ear, voice playful, "if you're going to call me a thief, at least give me something worth stealing."

Mae yelped, stumbled back into the table, knocking a stack of books to the floor. Her heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of her ribs.

When she looked up again, he was gone.

Gone, but the room still echoed with his presence. As if reality hadn't yet caught up with the fact he was no longer there.

The diary sat open on the table, one new line inked across the center of the page.

He is not your enemy. But he is not your friend either.

Mae stared at it.

Then at the empty space he had occupied.

Her hands were shaking.

And yet...

She wasn't running.

Something in her had already decided.

The world she knew was gone.

And something else had arrived in its place.

Something terrifying.

Something alive.