I've Said Too Much

(Note: This story does include the finding of a deceased body; reader discretion is advised)

I noticed him the first time at the coffee shop on 3rd Street. He sat two tables over, stirring a cup of tea he never drank. He wasn’t looking at me, not directly, but there was something in the way his head tilted, the way his eyes flickered over the rim of his cup, that made me feel observed. Every so often, he would blow on his mug, and eventually, this act became unsettling, as I knew the tea must have grown cold in the hour he sat unmoving.

This man was dressed neatly – a stark contrast to myself, in a worn sweatshirt and messy bun that couldn’t contain my red hair. He wore an ironed shirt, pressed pants, and his copper hair was immaculately combed and styled. He was remarkable because he simply did not belong – a bustling place with people moving in and out as he sat stoically with his tea.

The second time was at the bookstore downtown. I was running my fingers along the shelves, searching for something to pull me in. Recently, I’ve been drawn to the paranormal, and had moved into horror. It was terrifying, yet intriguing, as I began to imagine all there is out there that is unknown. As I perused the back of the latest Awad novel, I saw him standing in the philosophy aisle to my right. He wasn’t reading, just tracing the spine of a book with one long finger. When I walked past, he looked up.

“Not your usual genre,” he said, nodding toward the horror novel in my hands.

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head. “You usually read literary fiction. Something with layered metaphors, quiet heartbreak.”

A shiver danced down my spine. “How would you know that?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the book he had been holding and walked away, disappearing behind the towering shelves before I could press further. As I followed him, his pace quickened. Dressed in seemingly the exact same clothes as days before, with a steady, strong step, I could not place him, though it felt like I knew him from somewhere. In my haste, without noticing, I had run into a display. As the books scattered to the floor, I muttered apologies to the staff member who ran over. I quickly looked up, and he was gone.

By the third time, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. I was at the park, spring in the air, though Lake Michigan was still hedged in ice dunes, which rose and fell in the evening light. My breath curling in front of me in soft clouds. He was sitting on a bench, his posture relaxed, hands resting in his lap. Unlike before, he didn’t pretend not to notice me. I noticed he wore a scarf – a scarf I swear was my own. I had lost it many years ago, in grade school, and was scolded for my carelessness. It couldn’t be, I thought, as I approached closer. His gaze lifted as I approached, as if he had been waiting.

“You always take this route home.”

I stopped in my tracks. “What?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t a casual, friendly expression. It was something else — something knowing. “The same path, every evening. You like the way the light hits the water at this hour.”

My pulse quickened. “Are you following me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured to the lake. “There’s something peaceful about watching things move where they aren’t meant to be. The way ripples distort reflections. Everything familiar becomes something else.”

I crossed my arms. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his auburn hair. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

My skin prickled. “Who are you?”

For a moment, I thought he might tell me. He parted his lips as if considering it, his gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that sent a strange, twisting sensation through my stomach. But then, just as quickly, something shifted. His face, his expression — it was like watching a shadow pass over the sun.

“I’ve said too much,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

He stood, brushing invisible dust from his coat. “Forget this conversation.”

My heart pounded. “Forget it?”

He nodded, his voice quiet. “It’s better that way.”

And then he turned, walking away with an unsettling calm. I wanted to call out, to demand answers, but my throat tightened. I could only watch as he disappeared into the trees on the shoreline, his silhouette dissolving in the twilight.

It wasn’t until I turned back toward the path, heart hammering, that I realized something strange.

There were no footprints where he had been standing.

And the air where he had spoken still carried the scent of something I couldn’t quite name — something like old paper, burnt cedar, and a storm about to break.

I don’t remember deciding to come here. One moment, I was standing in the park; the next, the ice stretched before me, endless and waiting. I had begun to question whether I was losing my grip on reality. The strange man’s cryptic words, the shifting moments in time, and the absence of solid ground beneath my feet had all led me to this moment, standing on the frozen shore of Lake Michigan.

The ice cracked beneath my boots, protesting against the weight of yet another cold season. The lake stretched out before me, an endless horizon of white and blue that should have felt serene but instead left me with an unsettling feeling — like something was wrong, something lurking just out of sight.

I walked carefully, mindful of the shifting terrain beneath me. The lake was beautiful, but treacherous. Mounds of frozen sand rose in strange, wind-carved shapes, dusted with snow. The ice here was patchy — some parts solid, some beginning to crack and leak dark pools of water beneath.

There was something about this place that made my stomach turn, something about the way the lake seemed to pulse under my feet. It felt alive, watching me, waiting. The icy wind bit at my skin, and my breath curled in the air in front of me in wisps of smoke. I knelt by a pool of dark water that had opened beneath the ice, watching as minnows darted below, their silver bodies flashing like tiny ghosts in the clear, cold depths. The clarity of the water made my pulse quicken — too easy to see the darkness below, too easy to imagine the lake’s cold hunger.

Then, something caught my eye.

A darker patch of ice than the others, an odd shape trapped beneath the surface. I moved closer, my boots skidding slightly on the slick ground. The ice here was different — smoother, clearer, almost like glass. And underneath it, something unnatural. A smear of color — a reddish-orange streak that seemed impossibly bright against the deep blue-black of the water. My heart lurched.

I knelt down, tapping gently at the ice with the toe of my boot, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The shape underneath wavered, but it didn’t move. I pressed harder, cracking the ice, and then, as though the surface were giving up its secret, the water pooled, revealing what had been hidden beneath.

Hair, long and dark, flowing like seaweed with the current.

A face, pale and lifeless, staring upward, eyes wide and empty.

My breath caught. A sharp, cold terror raced through my veins. I stumbled back, my heart hammering in my chest, but I couldn’t look away. The wind howled, and the ice beneath me groaned, shifting uneasily.

And then, realization struck like a physical blow.

The woman under the ice — frozen, lifeless — was me.

A strangled sound left my throat. My mind recoiled, trying to reject what I was seeing, but there was no denying it. It was my own face staring back at me, my own vacant, sightless eyes trapped beneath the ice.

A whisper cut through the howling wind.

"Do you understand now?"

I turned sharply. The man was there, standing just a few feet behind me, as if he had always been. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes — an ancient sorrow, a knowing — made my stomach churn.

“You weren’t meant to find this,” he said quietly, his gaze flickering to the ice, to the frozen image of me.

I shook my head, my pulse pounding in my ears. "What is this? Why is she — why am I —"

"You’ve been lost," he said softly. "Lost in time, lost in memory. The past and future bleed together. You are the woman under the ice. And yet, you’re still here, trying to find your way."

A deep, pulsing ache settled in my chest. My breath came in short, shallow bursts. I wanted to reject his words, to turn and run, but something about them rang true in a way I couldn’t explain.

I opened my mouth to speak, but something flickered in my peripheral vision — movement in the ice. I turned sharply, expecting to see the body beneath me shift, but what I saw instead made my blood run cold.

Reflections. Not just one, but many. Scattered across the ice in broken, distorted fragments — my face, but not as it was now. Older, younger, crying, laughing, standing somewhere else entirely. Flickering like a glitch in time. A hundred versions of me trapped beneath the surface, shifting and blending like ripples in the water.

One version of me didn’t flicker and vanish like the others. She was staring back, her mouth moving soundlessly, like she was trying to warn me.

My hands trembled. “This isn’t real.”

The man sighed, as if he had been expecting this reaction. “What is real?” he murmured. “Is time so linear, Alex? Can you really be sure you’re still the same person you think you are? Or have you already crossed over?”

My pulse slammed against my ribs. I wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, but something inside me knew he wasn’t. The lake groaned beneath me, the ice fracturing in slow, creeping lines. The world tilted, unsteady, and for a moment, I felt as though I was slipping between the cracks, the space between past and future collapsing around me.

I turned back to the man, searching his face for some kind of anchor, some kind of answer. “What do I do?” I whispered.

His eyes were solemn, unwavering. “You come with me. There’s only one way to move forward.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with finality. I hesitated, my gaze flickering once more to the frozen version of myself beneath the ice. A life lost, a path already taken. But if I stepped away, if I turned back now –  would I ever get another chance to change it?

I swallowed hard. My fingers curled into fists at my sides.

And then, I nodded.

The man held out his hand.

And I took it.

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