I stared at my bare finger, the skin pale where a wedding band once rested. It had been years since the divorce from Ted Kissinger, but my brain still rebelled, sending phantom sensations of the ring's weight, its cool metal against my skin.
Muscle memory, they called it. A quirk of the brain that replayed familiar actions, even when the stimulus was gone. I flexed my finger, feeling the ghostly presence of the ring, its absence a palpable ache.
The memories came flooding back – the laughter, the fights, the whispered promises. All lies. Ted's smile still haunted me, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he slipped the ring onto my finger on our wedding day.
I shook my head, dispelling the ghosts. It was over. I had moved on, started a new life as Kate Kissinger, single woman. But the phantom ring lingered, a constant reminder of what I'd lost.
As I stood in front of the mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself, and for a moment, I saw the woman I used to be – happy, in love, and wearing a ring that symbolized forever. But that woman was gone, replaced by a stranger with a haunted look in her eyes.
I turned away from the mirror, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that settled in the pit of my stomach. It was just my imagination playing tricks on me. The phantom ring was just a manifestation of my brain's inability to let go.
But as I walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching me, waiting for me to let my guard down. I quickened my pace, my heart beating faster with every step.
And then, I heard it. A faint whisper in my ear. "You still feel it, don't you?"
I spun around, but there was no one there.