The rain tapped insistently against the windowpane, a relentless rhythm that matched the throbbing in Elias’s temples. He sat in the dim living room of his secluded cabin, staring at the faded photograph on the mantel. In it, he and Clara smiled, arms wrapped around each other on a sun-drenched beach. That was five years ago, before the accident. Or was it four? The details blurred at the edges, like ink bleeding on wet paper.

Elias rubbed his eyes, trying to sharpen the memory. They had been driving home from the coast, laughing about nothing. Then the curve in the road, the slick asphalt after a sudden downpour. He remembered the wheel jerking in his hands, the sickening crunch of metal. Clara’s scream cut short. When he woke in the hospital, they told him she was gone. His fault. Always his fault.

But lately, the memory shifted. Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, he saw it differently. Clara arguing with him before they even left the beach house. ‘You’re drinking too much, Elias,’ she said. Or did she? He couldn’t be sure. The cabin was supposed to be a retreat, a place to piece himself back together after the guilt had carved hollows in his chest. Nestled deep in the woods, miles from the nearest town, it offered silence. Too much silence.

He stood, legs unsteady, and shuffled to the kitchen. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Sleep evaded him these days, chased away by fragments that didn’t fit. Last night, he dreamed of Clara standing at the foot of his bed, her eyes accusatory. ‘Why did you let me go?’ she whispered. He woke sweating, heart pounding, convinced she had been there.

Coffee. Black, strong. As the pot brewed, Elias’s gaze drifted to the knife block on the counter. One slot empty. Had he used it this morning? For what? Chopping vegetables, maybe. Yes, that’s right. A stew. But there were no vegetables in the fridge when he checked earlier. Odd.

The first doubts crept in months ago. Small things: misplaced keys, forgotten appointments. The doctor called it post-traumatic stress, prescribed pills he rarely took. ‘Your mind is protecting itself,’ she said. Protecting from what? The truth? Elias poured the coffee, the steam rising like ghosts.

Days blurred into weeks. The cabin’s isolation amplified every creak, every whisper of wind. Elias filled notebooks with memories, trying to anchor them. Clara loved jazz on Sundays. They danced in the kitchen. Did they? In one entry, he wrote she hated music. Contradictions piled up, a tower threatening to topple.

One evening, as twilight bled into night, he found a letter in the mailbox. No stamp, no address. His handwriting on the envelope: ‘Read when ready.’ Heart racing, he tore it open inside, under the flickering bulb.

‘Elias,
If you’re reading this, the fog is thickening. Remember the beach? Not with Clara. You were alone. Clara never existed. She’s from the book you read last summer, the one about lost love and fatal drives. Your accident was solo, a deer on the road. No wife, no screams. The hospital stay? For depression, not trauma. You’ve been here in the cabin, rewriting your life to fill the emptiness. Check the mantel photo. Look closer.

Stop before it’s too late. Call Dr. Harrow.
Elias’

His hands trembled. Impossible. He rushed to the mantel, snatched the photo. Under the glass, faint pencil marks: ‘Imaginary, 2022.’ The smiles mocked him. Clara’s face—his own features softened, hair dyed in a photo edit app.

Panic surged. The notebooks—frantic scribbles of a man inventing a ghost. The empty knife slot? He remembered now: carving wooden figurines of her, one last night, shavings still in the trash.

But the letter… future him? Or past, warning? The cabin walls closed in, the rain louder, accusatory.

He dialed Dr. Harrow, voice shaking. ‘It’s bad. The memories…’

‘The usual,’ the doctor sighed. ‘Elias, you’ve called every night this week. Come in tomorrow.’

He hung up, staring at the phone. Every night? No. Just tonight.

Sleep came fitfully. Dreams twisted: Clara driving, him passenger, her hands on the wheel, laughing maniacally as they plunged.

Morning light filtered gray. Elias brewed coffee again—same routine. Knife block full now? No, still empty. He searched drawers, found it under the sink, blood dried on the blade. His blood? A shallow cut on his palm, forgotten.

The isolation gnawed deeper. He hadn’t left the cabin in weeks, or months? Supplies dwindled: canned goods, sparse. Deliveries? He ordered online, but no packages.

Afternoon brought a visitor. A knock—rare, startling. Through the peephole, a woman in a parka. ‘Elias? It’s me.’

Clara?

He cracked the door. Not her. Older, lines of worry. ‘I’m Mara, your sister. You haven’t answered calls.’

Sister? No siblings. ‘Wrong house.’ Slam.

But doubt lingered. Mara. Vague recollection: childhood fights, her leaving for college.

Evening, another letter in the mailbox. Same handwriting: ‘Mara is real. Clara isn’t. The accident was you swerving to avoid her car on the highway last year. You survived; guilt made you erase her, invent Clara as punishment.’

No. He burned it in the sink, flames dancing shadows.

Nights worsened. Whispers: ‘Elias… why?’

He barricaded the door, sat with the knife, rocking.

Weeks passed—or days? Time slipped.

One storm-lashed night, power out, flashlight beam jittery. He heard footsteps upstairs. Cabin had no upstairs. Loft? Bedroom.

Creeping up, beam caught a figure in the mirror. Clara, smiling. He touched glass—cold.

‘Turn around,’ she said.

He did. Empty room.

The beam swung back. His reflection: not Elias. A stranger’s face, scarred from crash. Who was he?

Memory flash: Real name Marcus. Elias died in the accident—with Clara, his wife. He was the intruder, amnesiac squatter, taking over the cabin owner’s life. Papers in drawer: Deed to Elias P. Thorne. But his ID: Marcus Hale, escaped psych patient.

No—the twist deepened. He searched pockets: hospital bracelet, ‘Elias Thorne, Room 214.’ The cabin? Delusion. He was in bed, nurses watching.

But the rain felt real, knife heavy.

Final realization crashed: All memories fabricated. No accident, no Clara, no cabin. He was Elias, alone always, projecting lives to escape void. Letters self-written, sister real but estranged.

He slashed wrist deeper. ‘Join you soon, Clara.’

As blood pooled, clarity: Last words from intercom: ‘Elias, wake up. Therapy time.’

The room swam, monitors beeping. The cabin dissolved into white walls. Dr. Harrow’s voice: ‘He’s stabilizing. Another episode.’

Elias opened eyes to sterile light. No rain. No knife. Just restraints, concerned faces.

‘The cabin?’ he croaked.

‘Dream, Elias. You’ve never left this room. Your mind builds worlds to hide from the truth: you killed Clara. For real. Strangled her in rage, five years ago. Buried body in woods you imagine.’

Memory locked open: Her pleas, his hands, the grave.

Guilt no longer buried. Reality no escape.

He closed eyes, welcoming dark.