The Fifth-Floor Ledge

The parcel shouldn’t have been there.

That was the first thought.

It was a Thursday, and winter had finally taken the city by the throat. Snow drifted sideways past my fifth-floor window, catching in frantic spirals before sticking to the glass. I came home from the late shift at the bookstore, kicked the front door shut with my heel, and dropped my bag with a thud that echoed down the narrow hallway.

I was halfway to the kitchen when I saw it: a small dark shape sitting on the outside of my living-room window ledge.

My building doesn’t have balconies. Below the window is four stories of sheer brick and then a sliver of alley paved with slush and old gum. No fire escape. No handy ledges. To put anything out there, you’d need wings. Or a death wish.

I approached slowly, heart thudding. Snow blurred the view, but the object didn’t move. Just a squat rectangle, dusted white like a miniature grave. I cracked the window open a few centimeters. Cold air knifed in, sharp and metallic. Leaning out as far as I dared, I hooked my hand around the parcel and dragged it inside.

It was heavier than it looked—matte black paper, edges folded with almost obsessive precision. No address. No card. No clue. A strange tug pulled at my temple—my scar reacting the way it does when something brushes too close to a memory I can’t reach.

“Okay,” I whispered to no one. “That’s not creepy or anything.”

I tore the paper open. Inside was an old cardboard box, worn soft with handling. Beneath the faint smell of dust came something metallic. I lifted the lid.

A silver locket lay in a bed of tissue.

Oval, no bigger than a quarter. A delicate chain pooled beneath it. Tiny vines curled around its edge; stamped leaves framed the center, where two initials were engraved in elegant script.

E.C.

My breath stilled.

My name is Emma Clark.

The room didn’t change, but something in my chest shifted painfully. The heater hummed. A car honked outside. Nothing moved but the sudden ache blooming under my ribs. This means something, my body whispered. Even if your mind doesn’t remember.

I sat down sharply on the couch, the springs wheezing beneath me. I picked up the locket—cold enough to sting—and the chain slid over my knuckles like something alive.

And then the world slid sideways.

Snow—that was the first thing. Snow spiraling under yellow streetlights, thick and silent. My breath curling in white clouds. Gloved hands reaching around my neck from behind, brushing my skin with cold metal.

“Hold still,” a voice murmured right beside my ear—warm, amused. “You wriggle more than the wind.”

I laughed, a sound that felt like it belonged to another version of me. “It’s freezing.”

“You love it.”

“Shut up.”

Fingers fastened the clasp. The locket settled into the hollow of my throat.

“There,” the voice said softly. “Now you can’t say I never give you anything.”

The memory snapped off.

I gasped back into the present, hunched over with the locket clenched so tightly the metal dug into my palm. The room looked off—like someone had nudged the furniture while I wasn’t looking. A laugh I half-recognized. A voice I clearly once knew. A touch I’d allowed. But my mind yanked everything away again, as if guarding a locked room in its own house.

I uncurled my fingers slowly. The imprint of leaves marked my skin.

Who had put this around my neck?

And who had sent it back?

The next gift came three days later.

I was awake at 2 a.m., rereading a novel I couldn’t remember whether I’d loved. Something slid through the mail slot and hit the floor with a soft slap. A plain cream envelope.

My stomach clenched.

I sat on the couch, hands trembling just enough to make the paper crinkle. I considered throwing it away unopened. Pretending none of this was happening.

But pretending has never changed a truth I didn’t want.

I tore it open.

A pressed violet fell into my palm.

Its petals had faded to grayish blue, the stem fragile as ash. No note.

The moment it touched my skin, the world tilted.

Sunlight. A field of wildflowers. Grass stains on my jeans. Someone tugging me down to sit.

“You’ll crush them,” I laughed.

“That’s what flowers do,” the same warm voice said. “They get crushed. They make things prettier first.”

“That’s morbid.”

“That’s honest.”

Fingers tucked a violet behind my ear. Lips brushed my cheek, brief and warm.

I came back with my hand pressed to my face, chest aching.

I grabbed the notebook my therapist, Dr. Kaplan, had told me to keep.

Parcel on window — silver locket.

Snow. Voice. Hands at my neck.

Violet in envelope — field. Same voice.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

“Who are you?” I whispered to the empty room.

No answer.

But the gifts kept coming.

A ticket stub from a station whose name made my heart twist.

A photocopied book page with a highlighted line: Sometimes forgetting is another way of remembering what matters.

In the margin, the same near-familiar handwriting:

You said this was lazy writing.

A torn Polaroid of fireworks and my own hand holding a sparkler.

Each object cracked open a flicker—laughter, subway noise, fingers brushing mine, warmth in the dark. Never long enough to grasp.

I didn’t tell Hana, my coworker, about all of them. I didn’t know how to explain the way my body reacted—like a tuning fork struck by a sound only it could hear.

In therapy I asked, “Is this dangerous?”

“Does it feel dangerous?” Dr. Kaplan replied.

“It feels like standing at the edge of a pool without knowing the depth.”

“Do you want to jump?”

I thought of the voice, the warmth.

“Yes,” I admitted. “No. Maybe.”

Her smile was knowing. “That sounds right.”

The last gift was the simplest.

A single sheet of paper, slid halfway under my door. My name: Emma, written in blue ink. Just my first name, looping and familiar in a way that stung.

I unfolded it.

You once said if you ever got lost, your feet would still know the way back.

I’m trusting that.

Tomorrow. 7 p.m. Where the river freezes first.

As I read, the locket against my skin went hot.

And then I wasn’t in my hallway—I was elsewhere entirely.

An old pedestrian bridge. Metal railings slick with ice. A river below, half-frozen. Snow clinging to my eyelashes. My hand in someone’s.

“Here,” I heard myself say. “This is where it always begins.”

“What does?” he asked.

“Winter,” I said. “It freezes here first. Like the city’s spine.”

“Spines don’t work like that.”

“Shut up.”

The memory vanished like breath in cold air.

Tomorrow. 7 p.m.

I didn’t know exactly where he meant.

Apparently, my feet did.

The next day, the sky dimmed early.

I left the bookstore before closing. Hana fussed with my scarf.

“If this turns into a true-crime podcast episode, I’ll kill him myself,” she said.

“Comforting.”

“Text me when you get there. And when you leave. And in the middle.”

“I will.”

I stepped into the bitter air, tightening my coat, and headed east toward the river. The streets grew quieter: warehouses, chain-link fences, snow collecting in corners.

I turned left without thinking. Then right. Past a mural I half-recognized. My scar pulsed under my skin.

The riverfront air smelled of metal and cold water. I followed the path, boots crunching on packed snow.

The first bridge was wrong. Too modern.

The second was wrong too. Too low.

But the third—

The third made my lungs stop.

A narrow arched footbridge, railings painted dull green, rust peeking through. Snow clung to the edges. Below, the river moved in sluggish darkness—except for a wide pale sheet in the center.

Where the river freezes first.

My gloved hand found the rail. A memory tried to break through—headlights, a shout, the sensation of falling—but cut off before impact.

“You’re early.”

I turned sharply.

A figure walked toward me through the snow.

Dark hair. Navy coat. Bare hands shoved into pockets. Snow melting on his lashes. Every step he took made my pulse lurch painfully.

When he stopped a few feet away, I felt something inside me recognize him before my mind could.

“Hi,” he said softly.

My voice barely worked. “Do I… know you?”

His face flickered with a pain that lasted only a second.

“You did,” he murmured. “Once.”

He cleared his throat like it hurt. “I’m Rowan. Rowan Hale.”

The name hit me like a stone tossed into deep water. No instant clarity. Just ripples.

“You’re the one leaving things,” I whispered.

He nodded. “I figured it’d be less overwhelming than showing up at your job and saying, ‘Surprise, we used to be in love.’”

A startled laugh escaped me.

“You used to laugh like that all the time,” he said quietly.

I looked down at the frozen river. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t choose this,” he said instantly.

“How did we…” I breathed. “What were we?”

His mouth curved, half-sad, half-fond.

“A lot of things. Bad cooks. Good at getting lost. Terrible at keeping plants alive. Physically incapable of passing a bookstore without going inside.”

“And… romantically?”

He hesitated, studying me like he was checking the depth before stepping in.

“You called me your future once,” he said. “And I believed you.”

Something shattered quietly inside me.

I gripped the railing as pressure built behind my eyes.

He took one step forward, then caught himself. “Breathe. You don’t have to remember anything. I’m not here to demand it.”

“Then why?” I whispered.

“Because I hated thinking I was a ghost in your head. If there was an ache you felt but didn’t understand, I wanted you to know it wasn’t imaginary. We were real.”

My eyes burned.

“You gave me this,” I said, touching the locket.

His jaw tightened. “You lost it the night you fell. Just past this bridge. Black ice.” He swallowed. “They wouldn’t let me ride in the ambulance. Said I should meet them at the hospital.”

“And then I forgot.”

“You forgot a year,” he said, voice fraying. “Our year.”

A whole year. Gone.

“I tried to visit,” he continued quickly. “Your mom said the doctors wanted things simple. Later, I saw you in the hallway. You walked right past me, laughing with your sister. You looked… free. So I decided not to drag you backward.”

“So you left.”

“I thought it was the kindest thing I could do,” he said. “Then I realized disappearing wasn’t fair either. So I left things. Pieces you could pick up or ignore.”

I stepped closer before I even realized I had.

“I don’t remember much,” I whispered. “Just flashes. Violets. Sparks. The sound of you laughing in snow.”

“That’s okay,” Rowan said softly.

“I can’t promise I’ll ever remember everything.”

“I’m not asking you to.” His voice gentled. “I’m here because you deserved truth. Not confusion.”

I exhaled a shaky breath.

“You’re an idiot,” I said.

His smile cracked through, small and trembling. “Accurate.”

“You loved me,” I said.

He didn’t deny it.

“And I…” My throat tightened. “Something keeps pulling me back. Even if I don’t know why yet.”

I lifted the locket from my chest. “You gave me this once. I don’t remember that. But I’m choosing to keep it now.”

Rowan’s eyes shone. “Okay,” he whispered.

“Will you walk me home?”

His answering smile was so full of hope it hurt. “Yeah,” he said. “Always.”

We walked side by side through falling snow, our arms brushing. He told me small stories—the plant shop where we met because I’d killed three succulents; the café with oversalted cookies; the night we got lost on purpose, trying to prove we could find our way back without maps.

As he spoke, pieces slotted into place. A flash of his hand catching mine at a crosswalk. The smell of cedar on his coat. The echo of distant fireworks. Not whole memories—just glimmers. Enough to feel the shape of something once warm and wide and alive.

By the time we reached my building, my head felt raw and full and strangely light.

“This is where I almost kissed you once,” he said, rubbing his neck. “You had pizza grease on your chin.”

“Romantic.”

“You told me never to let you out like that again. I failed immediately.”

I laughed.

“I’m tired,” I admitted. “In a good way.”

“Text me if you want,” he said softly. “Or don’t. I won’t disappear again. But I won’t hover, either.”

“Good. You’d break your neck climbing to the fifth floor.”

“That’s what helmets are for,” he deadpanned.

I shook my head, smiling.

“Rowan.”

“Yeah?”

“You said I called you my future once.”

His breath stilled.

“I don’t remember that,” I said. “But… I’d like to see if it still fits.”

The cold air between us warmed.

He didn’t rush in. He just looked at me like he was rediscovering the sun.

“One step at a time,” he murmured.

I nodded.

Inside my apartment, everything felt different. I went to the window where the first parcel had appeared and looked out at the empty ledge.

My reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, tired eyes, the silver locket glinting against my skin.

I touched it.

No flood of memories came.

Just warmth. Gentle, slow. Like the first light of morning.

My past might never return in full.

But my future had just walked me home.

And for the first time since the fall, I wanted more time.

Not to remember.

To live.

I looked at my reflection, the falling snow, the invisible thread stretching back to the bridge where the river froze first.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s start from here.”

The city hummed. Someone laughed on the street below. And on my fifth-floor ledge, for the first time in a long while, there was nothing at all.

Everything I needed was inside.