ECHO

The air smelled like roasted beans and burnt sugar as Sara Hardgraves stood in line at her usual corner coffee shop. The place buzzed with the familiar sounds of grinding machines and low conversations, the kind of ordinary hum that should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t. She hadn’t slept well—restlessness clung to her like a second skin.

The man in front of her, middle-aged, greasy hair slicked back, glanced over his shoulder before slipping right past her to the counter.

"Excuse me!" Sara snapped, her voice sharper than intended. "I’m in line."

The man ignored her, leaning toward the barista. Before Sara could march forward and give him a piece of her mind, a voice rang out behind her.

"Hey! She was next."

Sara turned, startled. A woman—about her age, dark hair pulled into a neat braid, eyes too large for her face—stood there with quiet confidence. She didn’t wait for the man to acknowledge her. Just stared.

He grumbled but backed down.

Sara blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, thanks. That was... unexpected."

The woman shrugged. "Some people need to be reminded of their place."

Sara gave a small laugh. "Can I buy you a coffee? Least I can do."

They sat near the window, cradling paper cups. Conversation came easy, too easy. The woman smiled, and it made Sara uneasy—like the smile was rehearsed.

"I didn’t catch your name," Sara said finally.

The woman hesitated, then smiled wider. "Sara. Sara Hardgraves."

Sara blinked. "What?"

"I know... weird, right? Must be a glitch in the matrix or something."

They laughed, but the sound didn’t reach Sara’s eyes. Something inside her stomach twisted. Still, they exchanged polite goodbyes. Sara shook it off. A weird coincidence. Nothing more.

Except...

She couldn’t unsee her.

At the grocery store later, she caught a glimpse of dark hair in the frozen food aisle. Same posture. Same braid. But when she turned fully, the aisle was empty.

In her car, she swore she saw someone in the rearview mirror—sitting in the back seat. She spun around. No one.

That night, she dreamed of mirrors. In every reflection, Sara saw her—but not her. The other Sara. Smiling, still.

---

The days blurred. Coffee tasted wrong. Her thoughts didn’t feel like her own.

She called her sister. "I think... I think someone’s following me."

"Jesus, Sara. Are you off your meds again?" her sister sighed. "You know you spiral when you get anxious."

"I’m not spiraling. I swear. There’s this woman—"

"You need to rest."

The walls of her apartment felt too close, suffocating. Her sister’s voice still rang in her ears—“You need to rest.” Screw that. She needed proof.

The grocery store was buzzing with life. Shoppers pushed carts lazily, children whined for candy, and fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. It was normal. Too normal.

Sara grabbed a cart, knuckles white around the handle, eyes darting from face to face. She’s here. I know she’s here.

The second time she saw the woman, it was by the produce section. A flicker of dark hair, that damn braid. Sara froze, heart hammering.

“Hey!” she called out, voice cracking. The woman didn’t turn. By the time Sara pushed through the oranges and apples, there was no one there.

The second time, near the cereal aisle, she saw the woman’s reflection. Not the woman—just her reflection. Grinning. Braid perfect, lips bloodless. Sara spun around. No one.

Shoppers glanced at her. A mother pulled her toddler closer.

Sara panted, cart rattling as she forced herself toward the dairy section. She needed to calm down. She was losing it. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s happening again.

And then she saw her. Full view. Across the aisle by the freezer section. Smiling. Smiling.

"You!" Sara screamed, abandoning the cart. "Stop following me!"

Heads turned. Conversations died.

The woman stood still, staring back with calm, dead eyes.

"I said stop!" Sara lunged forward, slipping on the linoleum. She crashed hard, palms scraping the floor. Gasps echoed around her.

"Ma’am—ma’am, you need to calm down," a store manager said, rushing over.

"Don’t you see her?!" Sara shrieked, pointing a shaking hand. "She’s right there! She’s been following me for days!"

"There’s no one there," the manager said carefully, glancing toward the empty aisle.

Sara turned—empty. No woman. No braid.

She felt eyes burning into her skin. Customers watched, whispering behind hands.

"I’m not crazy," she whispered, then screamed, "I’M NOT CRAZY!"

The manager held his hands out like she was an animal about to bolt. "Maybe you should call someone... is there anyone we can call?"

Sara backed away, chest heaving, face flushed.

Then she ran—bolted out of the store like the devil was chasing her. Shoved open the glass doors so hard they bounced off their hinges.

The last thing she heard was a mother whispering to her child, "That poor woman’s out of her mind"

Her phone rang. "Sara," her mother’s voice, soft and full of old concern, "Honey... please. Don’t let yourself get like this again."

"I’m not crazy."

"You said that last time, too."

Sara didn’t remember passing out. She’d been drinking—just a little. Enough to take the edge off. But when she woke up, the house was too silent.

The door was open. Not just open—unlocked.

Her skin went cold. She called the cops, voice shaking.

"They were here. Someone was in my house."

Cops came. Checked everything. Nothing was missing. No sign of forced entry.

"You sure you didn’t forget to lock up, ma’am?" one of them asked.

"I’m not crazy!" she snapped.

They left her with polite nods and pitiful eyes.

Hours later, as night fell, Sara stood in her kitchen, hands trembling. And then... the voice.

"Looking for me?"

Sara spun. The woman stood there. Perfectly still. Same braid. Same face.

"Who are you?" Sara shrieked. "What do you want?"

The woman smiled that wide, awful smile. "I told you. I’m Sara Hardgraves."

"No, you’re not!"

"I’m just... an echo of you."

Sara lunged. Screaming, clawing. The world became sound and fury. She didn’t know who threw the first punch—only that they crashed hard against the floor.

---

When Sara woke, the light hurt her eyes.

Cold metal bit into her wrists. Handcuffs. She was being dragged out of her house by cops.

"What—what is happening?"

The air smelled wrong. Someone was talking to a policeman. Sara squinted, heart dropping into her stomach.

The woman. Her. Standing with the officer.

"I’m the victim here," the woman said sweetly. "She broke into my home. I woke up and she was standing over me."

The cop nodded grimly.

"My name is Sara Hardgraves," the woman said. "You can check my license."

Sara’s scream caught in her throat.

"That’s my name," she croaked.

They loaded her into the ambulance like a wild animal. Bellevue, someone said.

The doors slammed.

Sara’s breath came in ragged bursts. There was a mirror near the corner. She turned her head—and screamed.

It wasn’t her face anymore. It was hers. The woman’s face. Pale. Hollow.

She realized she was the echo now.

Outside, the other Sara smiled ominously.

The ambulance doors closed and so did her freedom.