THE UNDERSIGNED
Narrated by ruby
Sarah wakes up in her home to a series of subtle, impossible inconsistencies: a capped pen she remembers leaving open, a mysterious second coffee mug that vanishes when she looks away, and a key fob that belongs to no one she knows. As she desperately attempts to verify her reality through journals, digital logs, and surveillance, her grip on her environment—and her own identity—begins to fracture. She soon discovers that the threat isn't an intruder, but the terrifying possibility that she is the architect of her own isolation, meticulously crafting a life and a companion that exists only in the spaces between her own forgetting.



The pen on the nightstand is capped. It is a slim, silver instrument, one I always leave uncapped when I am finished journaling. I am staring at the silver casing, my thumb tracing the edge of the wood veneer. I must have capped it. The thought brings a fleeting, cold clarity. I am tired, and the fatigue makes me clumsy. I reach for the pen, unscrew the top, and open the notebook to the last page. My final entry ends mid-sentence, the ink trailing off into a jagged tail. I do not remember stopping. The clock reads three in the morning. I am sure I went to bed at midnight.

Mark is asleep on the far side of the bed. His breathing is steady, a low, rhythmic sound that usually anchors me. I shift my weight, and the mattress dips, but he does not stir. I pick up the pen, intending to finish the thought, but the ink is dry. I press the tip to the paper. Nothing. I shake it, then hold it at an angle, watching for a dark bead to form. It is empty. I remember filling it yesterday. Or perhaps that was three days ago. I look at the journal, at the handwriting that seems to slant differently than it did last week. It is my script. Of course it is. I close the book and set it back on the nightstand, beside the silver pen. I am just tired.

The kitchen is quiet in the gray light of early morning. Two coffee mugs sit on the counter. One is the chipped ceramic cup I use every day. The other is a clean, matching mug, bone-white and undisturbed. I reach for my cup, then pause. I did not make a second pot of coffee. I do not drink enough for two, and Mark prefers tea. I touch the rim of the white mug. It is cold. I lift it, expecting a weight that isn't there. It is empty. I set it down, and the sound of ceramic against granite is sharper than it should be. I must have taken it out for Mark, intending to prepare tea, and then forgotten. I keep waiting for the memory to snap into place. It remains a blank space, a hole in the morning.

I walk to the hallway and open the coat closet. I need my keys. They are usually hanging on the brass hook. They are not there. I scan the shelf, my fingers brushing the felt lining of my winter scarf. My hand stops. There is a small, rectangular key fob sitting on the floor of the closet, tucked near the baseboard. It is not mine. It is black, plastic, and heavy. I pick it up, turning it over. It has a single, raised button. I do not own a car that uses a fob like this. Mark has a sedan, but his keys are on the kitchen table. I hold the object, my heart beginning a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. I did not drop this. Someone else was here. Or I am forgetting things that have never happened.

Mark enters the kitchen. He walks with that familiar, soft-footed grace. I drop the fob into my pocket, the plastic feeling like a hot coal against my thigh.

Did you have someone over last night? I ask. My voice sounds thin, brittle.

He pours hot water into his tea cup. His back is to me. No. Why would I?

I watch his shoulders. They do not tense. He turns, his expression open, curious. You seem distracted, Sarah.

I look at the coffee mugs on the counter. There is only one now. The white, bone-white mug is gone. I blink, my eyes stinging. I could have sworn there were two. I look at the sink, expecting to see it sitting in the soapy water. The sink is empty.

I have a meeting, he says, checking his watch. I will be back by six.

I stay in the kitchen long after he leaves. My hand is still in my pocket, clutching the key fob. I pull it out. The surface is smooth, cool. I press the button. A tiny red light blinks once. I wait. Nothing happens. I press it again. Nothing. I walk to the front door and point the fob at the lock, at the frame, at the street outside. I press the button ten, fifteen times. The red light flickers, indifferent. It is a piece of plastic. It does nothing. I am standing in my own hallway, holding a piece of junk, and I am terrified to put it back where I found it.

I go to the desk in the den. I have kept a digital log of my daily expenses for three years. I open the file. The last entry is dated three days ago. There is no entry for yesterday. No entry for today. I click on the history folder. It is empty. I try to restore the files, my fingers flying over the keyboard, but the system reports no previous versions. I sit back, the screen's glow illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. I did not delete these. I rely on this ledger. It is the only way I track the medication I take for my migraines.

My vision blurs, the edges of the room turning into soft, gray smears. I stand up too quickly and the world tilts. I grab the edge of the desk to steady myself, but my grip fails. I slide to the floor, my knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud. I crawl to the corner of the room, curling into a ball. I need to know. I need someone to tell me that I am still here.

Mark. I whisper the name.

I reach for my phone to call him, but I cannot remember his number. I have lived with him for five years. I stare at the keypad, the numbers blurring into meaningless shapes. I press the contacts button. There is no entry for Mark.

I scramble to the bedroom, my breath coming in jagged, shallow rasps. I need the journal. The journal has his name in it. I open the book to the first page. The pages are blank. I flip through the entire volume. Every page, from start to finish, is empty. My handwriting, the dates, the notes about my day — all gone.

I turn to the back cover. Tucked into the inner pocket is a small, folded piece of paper. I pull it out. It is a prescription note, dated yesterday. It is written in my own hand, but the signature at the bottom is not mine. It is Mark’s.

I walk to the mirror. My face looks like a stranger’s face, pale and wide-eyed. I touch my cheek. The skin feels like paper. I have been playing a game with myself, haven't I? I have been setting traps to see if I am still capable of observation. I hide the keys. I empty the journal. I delete the logs. I do this to see if I can find my way back to the truth.

I begin to search the house. I look under the floorboards, behind the books, inside the lining of the winter coats. I am looking for the proof that I am not alone. I move the furniture, dragging the sofa across the room, leaving deep scratches on the wood. I find a stack of polaroids taped to the underside of the dining table. They are photos of me. I am sleeping in this bed. I am sitting at this desk. I am walking in the kitchen. In every photo, I am alone. In every photo, someone is standing in the doorway, their shadow stretched long across the floor.

I hold the photos to the light. The shadow belongs to a man. He is tall, thin. He is wearing the same coat I saw hanging in the closet this morning.

The front door opens. Mark is home.

I hear his keys clink on the table. He walks into the kitchen. He hums a tune, something soft and aimless. I am standing in the center of the living room, the photos clutched in my hand.

Sarah? he calls out. His voice is warm, steady.

I walk toward him. I want to show him the photos. I want to ask him why he is watching me sleep. I reach the doorway and stop.

He is standing by the counter, pouring tea. There are two mugs. One is the chipped ceramic cup. The other is the bone-white mug.

I look at the counter. The white mug is there. I look at my hand. The photos are there.

I am not the one who takes them, he says, without turning around. You take them yourself, Sarah. Every night. You set the camera on the timer, and you wait for me to come in. You want to see if I am real.

I stare at his back. My heart is silent now, a heavy stone in my chest.

I open the journal, and the pages are filled with my own handwriting again. It describes everything. The fob in the closet. The missing files. The photos under the table. It is all there, written in my voice, dated today.

I am the one who writes it. I am the one who forgets.

I look at the white mug. I look at the silver pen on the counter. I realize I have never lived with anyone named Mark. I live here alone. I have always lived here alone. The name on the prescription note is my own. I wrote it, and I convinced myself it was him.

I walk to the counter and take the white mug. I go to the sink and pour the tea out. The liquid is dark, swirling down the drain. I look at my reflection in the window above the sink. I look tired. I look like someone who has been waiting for a long time.

I go back to the bedroom. I place the silver pen on the nightstand. I close the empty journal and tuck it away. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the sun to go down. I need to make sure I don't forget where I put the camera.

There is a small, black fob on the nightstand. I pick it up and press the button. A red light blinks in the dark. I wonder who I bought it for. I wonder if they are coming back. I pick up the pen and write one word on the wall, just in case.

Wait.

I lie down and close my eyes. I am certain I will remember this when I wake up. Or maybe I won't. I reach out and touch the wall, tracing the letters in the dark. It is definitely my handwriting. I think.```