THE UNDERSIGNED

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. ... MORE