The Wandering Echo

It began, as it always did, with a glimpse.

Marissa had been walking home from the bookstore when she first saw it. A simple, almost imperceptible shift in the glass storefront beside her—a pale figure standing among the reflections. She turned, expecting to see someone behind her. But the street was empty.

A trick of the light, she told herself. Yet, as she walked on, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just behind her, just outside her line of sight.

She told herself she was imagining things. That was the mistake.

The next few days passed in a blur of unease. Marissa saw it again, this time in the bus window as she rode home. A small, pale shape in the corner of her vision. She turned her head, but nothing was there.

Then, it appeared in her mirror. Not standing behind her, not creeping from the darkness—just there, reflected at the edge, waiting. Watching.

By the time she realized it was following her, she could no longer remember the moment it started. It had become a lingering presence, something her mind had grown accustomed to. A shadow with no form, a ghost with no past.

And still, it waited.

Marissa started searching. Paranormal forums, urban legends, even old books in the library. But there was no name for what she saw. No history, no case studies, no warning signs. Just a presence that followed those who noticed it.

She found accounts—strangers on message boards recounting similar experiences:

“I saw it outside my window. It never knocked, never moved. But I felt it.”

“I swear I saw something in my rearview mirror. When I turned around, my reflection lingered a second longer than I did.”

“I think I lost it when I stopped looking for it. Or maybe it lost me.”

Marissa read them all, realizing too late that no one ever described how it ended.

Most who encounter Drift never realize the nature of their haunting. They notice it once, maybe twice, then their minds let it go, and so does Drift.

But Marissa could not let it go.

She could not stop remembering.

The more she searched, the more it became real. The glimpses turned to full sightings, the sense of being watched became suffocating. Every reflection, every glass surface, every dark corner—it was there, staring, waiting for her to look away.

And she could no longer look away.

The last thing Marissa saw before she disappeared was her own reflection.

It stood there in the mirror, just like always. But this time, when she turned away, the reflection remained.

And then, slowly, it blinked.

Somewhere else, far from Marissa’s now empty apartment, a new soul caught a fleeting glimpse of something in a window. Just a shape. Just a shadow.

They would think nothing of it. They would move on.

And Drift would follow.