The first wrong thing Chen Mei-ling noticed was the rice cooker.
Not that it was on. Not that it was the wrong brand. But that it was humming — a low, steady tone that didn't match the usual click-and-steam rhythm she'd lived with for eleven years.
She stood in the doorway of her kitchen, grocery bags cutting red lines into her palms, and listened.
7.83 Hz.
She didn't know that, of course. She just knew it felt like the air was breathing.
"Weird," she said to no one.
Her husband was at work. Her daughter was at cram school. The apartment was empty.
Except.
Except the rice cooker had been off when she left.
She was sure of it.
Pretty sure.
Mei-ling set the bags on the counter. Walked to the cooker. Pressed the switch.
It clicked off.
The hum continued.
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Her neighbor, Mrs. Huang, caught her in the stairwell the next morning.
"You're looking well," Mrs. Huang said, eyeing her like she'd just won the lottery and forgotten to tell anyone.
"Thank you?"
"That haircut suits you."
Mei-ling touched her hair. Same shoulder-length bob she'd had since college. "I didn't—"
"Oh, don't be modest." Mrs. Huang patted her arm. "It's good to see you taking care of yourself. After everything."
"After what?"
Mrs. Huang blinked. "You know. The thing."
"What thing?"
A pause. Mrs. Huang's smile tightened. "Well. Have a nice day."
She left.
Mei-ling stood alone in the stairwell, her reflection staring back from the polished metal elevator doors.
Same hair.
Same face.
Same woman she'd been yesterday.
Right?
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Her daughter came home from school and asked, "Where's the vase?"
"What vase?"
"The blue one. On the table."
Mei-ling looked at the dining table. Empty except for a bowl of fruit and a stack of unopened mail.
"There's never been a vase there."
Her daughter frowned. "Yes, there has. You bought it last month. You said it reminded you of the ocean."
"I didn't—"
"You put it right there." Her daughter pointed. "It had white flowers. You said they were for Dad."
Mei-ling's chest tightened. "I don't remember that."
Her daughter stared at her. Then shrugged. "Okay. Whatever."
Then she disappeared into her room.
Mei-ling stood at the table, staring at the empty space where a vase had never been.
Where a vase had been.
Hadn't it?
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That night, she couldn't sleep.
She lay in bed, listening to her husband's breathing. Steady. Reliable. The same rhythm for fifteen years.
Except.
Except it sounded off.
Like it was a second too late.
Like he was breathing after the air moved.
She turned her head. Looked at him.
He looked the same.
Same face. Same graying hair. Same small mole on his left cheek.
She reached out. Touched his arm.
His skin was warm.
But the warmth came after she touched him.
Like the heat had to catch up.
She pulled her hand back.
Stared at the ceiling.
Listened to the hum.
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The next morning, she went to the bank.
The teller smiled at her. "Mrs. Chen. How can I help you today?"
"I'd like to check my account balance."
"Of course." The teller typed. Frowned. "Hmm."
"What?"
"It says here your account was closed two weeks ago."
Mei-ling's stomach dropped. "That's impossible. I just used my card yesterday."
The teller typed again. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Chen. It shows the account was closed on the fifteenth. By you."
"I didn't close it."
"It says you came in. Spoke with Manager Wu. Signed the forms."
"I didn't—" Mei-ling stopped. Swallowed. "Can I see the signature?"
The teller hesitated. Then turned the screen.
Mei-ling stared at it.
Her signature.
Her handwriting.
But.
But the date was wrong.
She'd been at the dentist on the fifteenth.
Hadn't she?
She'd had a cleaning.
Or had she?
"Mrs. Chen?" The teller's voice was gentle. "Are you all right?"
Mei-ling nodded. "I'm fine. I just. I must have forgotten."
She left.
Outside, the street looked the same.
The same fruit vendor. The same scooters parked in crooked rows. The same sky.
But.
But the light was wrong.
Like it was coming from the wrong direction.
Like the sun had forgotten where it was supposed to be.
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She called her mother.
"Hello?"
"Mom, it's me."
A pause. "Who?"
"Mei-ling."
Another pause. Longer. "I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong number."
"Mom, it's me. Your daughter."
"I don't have a daughter."
Mei-ling's hand shook. "Mom, please—"
Click.
She stared at the phone.
Her mother's voice.
Her mother's number.
But.
But her mother didn't know her.
She tried again.
But now, the number she dialed didn't belong to anyone.
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She went to the school.
Her daughter's classroom was on the second floor. She climbed the stairs, her legs heavy, her breath coming in short gasps.
She found the room. Looked through the window.
Her daughter was there.
Same ponytail. Same blue backpack. Same bored expression.
Mei-ling knocked.
The teacher opened the door. "Yes?"
"I'm here for my daughter."
The teacher frowned. "And who might that be?"
"Chen Yi-jun."
The teacher looked back at the class. "Yi-jun? Someone's here for you."
Her daughter looked up.
Stared at Mei-ling.
Blinked.
"I don't know that woman," she said.
The teacher turned back. "I'm sorry. There must be some mistake."
"No. No, that's my daughter. That's—"
"Ma'am, please. You're disturbing the class."
Mei-ling stepped back.
Her daughter was already looking away.
Already forgetting.
--------------------------------------------------
She went home.
The apartment was empty.
She stood in the living room, her purse still in her hand.
The walls were the same.
The furniture was the same.
But.
But there were no photos.
She walked to the shelf. The one where the wedding photo had been. The one where her daughter's school pictures lined up like a timeline.
Empty.
She checked the hallway.
No family portraits.
She checked the bedroom.
No frames on the nightstand.
She opened the closet.
Her clothes were there.
But.
But they weren't hers.
Wrong sizes. Wrong colors. Wrong brands.
She pulled out a dress. Held it up.
It was hers.
She was sure of it.
But.
But she'd never bought a dress like it before.
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That night, she sat at the dining table.
Her husband came home.
She looked up.
He didn't look at her.
"Dinner's ready," he said to the air.
"I didn't make dinner."
He paused. Turned. Stared at her.
"Who are you?"
Her chest cracked open. "It's me. Mei-ling."
"I don't know anyone named Mei-ling."
"I'm your wife."
He frowned. "I'm not married."
She stood. Walked to him. Grabbed his arm.
"Look at me. Please. Just look at me."
He did.
His eyes were empty. Afraid.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But I think you should leave."
She walked.
--------------------------------------------------
She didn't know where she was going. Just away.
The streets were full of people. Familiar faces. Neighbors. Shopkeepers. The woman who sold flowers on the corner.
None of them looked at her.
She tried to speak.
Her voice didn't come out.
She reached for a passerby.
Her hand passed through them.
No.
Not through.
Around.
Like they were solid and she was air.
She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
Looked down at her hands.
They were there.
Solid. Real. Hers.
She looked up.
Across the street, in the window of a café, she saw herself.
Her reflection.
Sitting at a table. Drinking coffee. Laughing with a friend.
Living her life.
Without her.
She ran.
She didn't know where. Just forward.
The city blurred. The streets twisted. The sky flickered.
She ended up in front of a building she didn't recognize.
No sign. No windows. Just a door.
She pushed it open.
Inside, a woman sat at a desk.
"Name?"
Mei-ling blinked. "What?"
"Your name."
"Chen Mei-ling."
The woman typed. Frowned. "You're not in the system."
"What system?"
"The registry." The woman looked up. "You shouldn't be here."
"I don't understand—"
"You need to leave. Now."
"I don't know where I am."
The woman sighed. Stood. Walked to a door. Opened it.
Beyond was a hallway.
Long. White. Silent.
"Go," the woman said.
"Where does it lead?"
"Home."
"Home?"
The woman didn't answer.
Mei-ling stepped through.
--------------------------------------------------
She woke up in her bed.
Her husband was snoring beside her.
Her daughter's backpack was by the door.
The vase was on the table.
Blue. White flowers.
She sat up.
Looked around.
Everything was right.
Everything was hers.
She walked to the kitchen.
The rice cooker was off.
No hum.
She turned it on.
It clicked. Steamed. Normal.
She exhaled.
Then she saw the note on the counter.
Her handwriting: You were never here.
She called her mother.
"Hello?"
"Mom, it's me."
"Mei-ling! How are you?"
Relief flooded her. "I'm fine. I just. I needed to hear your voice."
"Are you sure you're okay? You sound strange."
"I'm fine."
"Okay. Well, I'll see you next week for dinner, right?"
"Right."
She hung up.
Everything was fine.
Everything was back.
Except.
Except her reflection in the microwave door was still smiling.
Even though she wasn't.
--------------------------------------------------
That night, she Googled it.
Forgetting who you are.
People not recognizing you.
Reflections acting wrong.
She found forums. Reddit threads. Yahoo Answers from 2009.
Most said: stress. Sleep deprivation. Early onset dementia.
But one said: You're in the wrong timeline. Find the door.
She clicked it.
The post was deleted.
She refreshed.
The thread was gone.
She closed the laptop.
Stared at the wall.
Then she saw it.
In the corner of the room.
A shimmer.
Like heat haze over asphalt.
She stood. Walked to it.
It didn't go away.
She reached out.
Her hand disappeared into the shimmer.
No pain.
Just.
Just wrong.
She pulled back.
Her hand was fine.
But.
But it felt like it had been somewhere else.
Somewhere cold.
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The next morning, her daughter asked, "Mom, why do you look sad?"
"I'm not sad."
"You look sad."
Mei-ling forced a smile. "I'm just tired."
Her daughter stared at her. Then shrugged. "Okay."
She left.
Mei-ling sat at the table.
The vase was still there.
But.
But the flowers were wilting.
She hadn't watered them.
She was sure of it.
Pretty sure.
She stood. Walked to the vase. Touched a petal.
It crumbled.
Like it had been dead for weeks.
That afternoon, she went back to the building.
The one with no sign.
The door was locked.
She knocked.
No answer.
She looked around. The street was empty.
She tried the handle again.
It opened.
Inside, the woman at the desk was gone.
The desk was gone.
Just the hallway.
Long. White. Silent.
She stepped in.
The door closed behind her.
She walked.
The hallway didn't end.
No doors. No windows. Just walls.
White. Smooth. Cold.
She kept walking.
Her footsteps echoed.
One. Two. Three.
Then.
Then she heard another set of footsteps.
Behind her.
She stopped.
The footsteps stopped.
She turned.
The hallway was empty.
She kept walking.
The footsteps started again.
Faster.
Closer.
She ran.
She found a door.
She pushed it open.
Inside was her apartment.
But.
But it was wrong.
The furniture was the same. The walls were the same.
But.
But she wasn't there.
Her husband was. Her daughter was.
They were eating dinner.
Laughing.
Together.
Without her.
She stepped in.
"Hello?"
They didn't hear her.
She walked to the table.
"Can you see me?"
Her husband laughed at something her daughter said.
"Please. I'm here. I'm right here."
Her daughter reached for a bowl.
Her hand passed through Mei-ling's.
Cold.
So cold.
Mei-ling stumbled back.
She wasn't there.
She was a ghost.
She left.
Back into the hallway.
She kept walking.
She found another door.
Opened it.
Inside was her apartment again.
But.
But this time, she was there.
Sitting at the table. Alone.
Staring at nothing.
The other her looked up.
Their eyes met.
"You're me," the other her said.
"No. You're me."
"We can't both be real."
"I know."
They stared at each other.
Then the other her smiled.
"One of us has to go."
"I'm not leaving."
"Neither am I."
--------------------------------------------------
Mei-ling woke up in her bed.
Her husband was snoring.
Her daughter's backpack was by the door.
The vase was on the table.
Everything was right.
She got up.
Walked to the kitchen.
Made tea.
Sat at the table.
Stared at the vase.
Then she noticed.
Her reflection in the window.
It was sitting across from her.
Drinking tea.
Smiling.
Mei-ling looked at her hands.
No tea.
She looked up.
Her reflection waved.
Then stood.
Walked to the door.
Opened it.
Left.
Mei-ling sat alone in her kitchen.
The hum started again.
7.83 Hz.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, the vase was gone.
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Three weeks later, Mrs. Huang saw her in the stairwell.
"Chen Mei-ling! How are you?"
Mei-ling smiled. "I'm fine, thank you."
"You look well."
"Thank you."
"Are you still working at the school?"
Mei-ling paused. "Yes. Of course."
"Good. Good. Well, have a nice day."
Mrs. Huang left.
Mei-ling stood in the stairwell.
She didn't work at the school.
She never had.
But.
But maybe she did.
She looked at her reflection in the elevator doors.
It looked back.
Smiled.
Mei-ling smiled back.
Then she walked down the stairs.
Out into the street.
Into her life.
Or someone's life.
It didn't matter anymore.
She was here.
That was enough.
--------------------------------------------------
The rice cooker hummed.
7.83 Hz.
A woman stood in the kitchen, grocery bags cutting red lines into her palms.
She listened.
"Weird," she said to no one.
Then she set the bags down.
Pressed the switch.
The hum continued.
She frowned.
Looked at the counter.
There was a note.
Her handwriting.
You were never here.
She crumpled it.
Threw it away.
Made dinner.
Her husband came home.
Her daughter finished her homework.
They ate together.
Laughed.
Lived.
And somewhere, in the shimmer between realities, another Chen Mei-ling walked through a white hallway.
Still looking.
Still lost.
Still hoping she'd find the door home.
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END
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