The soft drizzle still tapped against the window when the last laugh faded and the house in Guadalajara finally went quiet.
The fragrance of wine, flowers, and melted candles hung heavy in the air.
I – Lucia was drained.
I peeled off my white dress, washed the makeup from my face, and thought, at last, I can rest.
But the moment I sat on the edge of the bed, three faint knocks echoed through the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
I assumed it was Luis, my husband, coming down for a glass of water.
When I opened the door, though, my breath caught.
It was Mariana—his sister.
Thirty, unmarried, with that strange mixture of innocence and mystery that no one in the family could ever quite explain.
She wore a wine-colored nightgown with thin straps and hugged an old pillow to her chest.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?” she asked softly. “Luis and I used to sleep together as kids. Now that he’s married… I feel so empty.”
I froze, words failing me.
Luis, who had followed behind, forced a laugh.
“You’re joking, right, Mariana?”
But she turned to him, her calmness unnerving.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I’ll just sleep in the middle. That way I know everything stays clean… and I won’t miss my little brother so much.”
The air thickened. I had only been in the Rosas household a day—starting an argument with my sister-in-law on my wedding night would be disastrous.
Before I could respond, a voice called from the hallway:
“Let her be,” said Doña Rosa, my mother-in-law. “Just for tonight.”
And so it happened.
Luis slept against the wall, Mariana in the middle, and I on the edge, staring up at the ceiling as the clock struck one.
The air felt suffocating, heavy, almost alive.
Every time Mariana shifted, the sheets brushed against me, and I shivered.
I couldn’t tell if it was fear… or shame.
I shut my eyes tight, wishing that by morning this would all become a strange, forgettable story.
But sometime around two, I woke to a sound—soft, wet whispers that barely reached my ear.
Then came the faintest breath… just behind me.
My heart thudded so loud I could hear it.
Luis was still—sound asleep.
The whispering came from Mariana.
I stayed frozen.
The murmurs grew clearer—desperate, almost pleading.
Then a trembling, cold hand grazed my back.
My breath caught. Slowly, I turned.
In the dim light, Mariana’s eyes gleamed—bright and animal-like. Her lips moved, muttering words I couldn’t decipher. She was leaning over Luis… far too close.
Then came a stifled sob. Mariana lifted her head, and her eyes met mine.
I don’t know what I saw there – emptiness, sorrow, something not human. I wanted to scream, but my voice failed.
The clock struck a quarter past two. And then I heard it—her whisper, fragile as smoke:
“I told you I wouldn’t share him with anyone.”
The wind rattled the window. The candle flickered.
Then silence.
Twenty years have passed since that night. Sometimes I tell myself it was a dream, that grief twisted my memories. But when I close my eyes, I still hear her voice. That whisper in the dark:
“I told you I wouldn’t share him with anyone.”
The next morning, sunlight streamed indifferently through the curtains. The air still smelled of wilted flowers. Luis didn’t move.
I shook him. Called his name. Screamed until my throat burned. His lips were cold. His chest still.
Mariana lay beside him, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, motionless.
When Doña Rosa entered, her scream echoed through the house. The neighbors called it a “heart atta:ck.” The police agreed. No one mentioned Mariana or the red stain on her nightgown, or the fact that she never shed a single tear.
I said nothing.
I just watched as they carried Luis away while Mariana clutched that old pillow, murmuring:
“You won’t leave me again, Luisito… not anymore.”
A few weeks later, she vanished. Some said she’d gone north. Others whispered she was seen praying at a church in Oaxaca, face hidden beneath a black veil. Doña Rosa never spoke her name again. She burned the sheets, replaced the locks, and had the entire house blessed.
I left Guadalajara soon after and swore never to return. But time and guilt and always circle back.
Last night, after two decades, I stepped inside the Rosas home once more. The same adobe walls, the same lace curtains, the same stern portrait of Luis’s father watching from the living room.
Upstairs, in that room, everything smelled of dust and decay and something else I couldn’t name. I sat on the bed, right where I’d lain that night. The wood creaked, and for a moment, I thought I heard a faint sigh.
Then I saw it.
The old pillow folded neatly on the nightstand. Same faded floral cover. And in one corner, a single strand of long, dark hair.
My skin prickled. No one else was home. Yet the temperature dropped, the clock struck two, and a gust swept through the room.
“Luis…” I whispered.
Only silence replied. Then rustling sheets. A breath.
And a voice.
“You shouldn’t have come back, Lucia.”
I turned.
Mariana stood there, pale, eyes hollow, wearing that same wine-colored nightgown.
She smiled.
“Now it’s complete,” she said softly. “Finally, the three of us again.”
The candle went out.
The clock stopped.
And the last thing I remember was the icy touch of her hand—
and the sound of three breaths, moving in perfect unison.