Digital Ghost

The iphone buzzed on the nightstand at 3 AM, its screen illuminating the dark room with an eerie blue glow. Sarah reached for it, her fingers trembling, expecting another collection agent or perhaps her mother checking in again.

Instead, she found thirty-seven unread messages from Marcus. The last one had been sent four hours ago, while she lay awake pretending to sleep beside him in their king bed, the empty space between them widening each day like a slow tear in fabric.

"I left the dog with your sister," read the final message. "He needs his heart vitamin with breakfast. Don't forget."

Barnaby, their golden retriever, had been dead for six months.

Sarah's hand went to her mouth. She sat up, the iphone suddenly heavy in her palm, and stumbled toward the hallway. The apartment was silent except for the refrigerator's low hum, but she could almost hear Barnaby's claws clicking against the hardwood, could almost smell his wet-dog scent after walks in the rain.

She found Marcus in his study, hunched over his laptop, the blue light washing out his face. He didn't look up when she entered.

"Marcus," she said, her voice cracking. "The phone."

He stopped typing. Slowly, he turned to face her, and in the monitor's reflection, she saw it: the same hollowness she'd been carrying for months, the same quiet undoing.

"I know," he whispered. "I keep forgetting. Every morning, I reach for the vitamin bottle, and then I remember there's no dog. And then I remember there's no us either."

The iphone buzzed again in her hand—a new message from Marcus, sent just moments ago: "I'm sorry I forgot to forget."

Sarah crossed the room and set the phone on his desk. Outside, dawn began to gray the windows, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, twice, then fell silent.