WATCHING THE FLAMES
Velma couldn't unhear the words.
"He's not entirely human."
"He may begin to see things."
"Immortality is not a gift—it's a chain."
That night, she lay beside Daniel in bed again. The same bed they'd shared in love, in laughter, in silence. He was lying on his back, one hand resting on his chest, the other curled lightly around hers. His breath was slow. Peaceful.
But Velma wasn't asleep.
She watched his face in the moonlight. Every familiar line. The slope of his nose. The curve of his lips. Nothing about him looked unnatural. His skin was warm. His touch was gentle. His heartbeat—still steady.
He's still Daniel, she told herself.
But in the soft glow of the night, she also watched for something else.
A flicker. A twitch. A sign that the man beside her carried a truth too large for this world.
She didn't know what she was looking for exactly. But now, she couldn't stop.
---
The next morning, she rose early, long before he stirred. She stood by the window, watching as the mist rolled over the garden hedges, her arms crossed over her robe. The house was quiet again—but now, it didn't feel peaceful.
It felt like it was waiting.
Daniel eventually woke, kissed her shoulder as always, and made a casual comment about breakfast. He smiled. Joked. Made her laugh with something silly about Mrs. Williams overfeeding them.
Nothing was off.
And that's what unsettled her the most.
---
Throughout the day, Velma kept watch.
She watched how Daniel picked up a hot pan without flinching—his hand bare. She watched him slice his finger accidentally while opening a box, only for the small cut to close faster than seemed normal. Not instantly, but fast enough to freeze her where she stood.
He didn't notice.
She watched how he walked barefoot into the garden just after rain, his steps firm on the wet stones, while hers slipped slightly. As if the earth responded differently to him.
She watched him from behind a book while he worked, his fingers flying over the laptop keys—his focus so intense it seemed like something else was guiding his thoughts. She watched how he rarely blinked when he was reading.
How shadows near him didn't quite move the way they should.
How the plants in the room seemed to lean ever so slightly toward where he sat.
All small things.
All easy to explain.
All easy to ignore.
But Velma didn't ignore them.
---
That afternoon, while Daniel was still in his study, she slipped into the master bathroom. She found his razor. Turned it over. Checked the blade—clean and untouched.
But she had seen him shave that morning.
She opened the medicine cabinet. There was no antiseptic. No band-aids. No pain relievers. The only things on the shelves were simple grooming products and colognes.
She checked the trash bin—no tissues with blood. No cotton pads. Nothing discarded.
She wasn't sure what she expected to find.
But the emptiness said more than she thought it would.
---
Later, she returned to the library upstairs. She picked a random book from the shelves—an old, dusty one with a cracked spine and golden lettering.
She flipped through the pages absently.
Then stopped.
Her eyes widened.
Near the back of the book, someone had scribbled a note in the margins.
It was Daniel's handwriting.
She knew it well by now—precise and neat, a little slanted to the right.
The note read:
"If I ever forget, let them remind me what I am."
Her fingers froze on the page.
Forget?
What he is?
She checked the date scribbled in faded ink at the bottom: 2014.
A full year before they met.
---
At dinner that night, Daniel cooked again. They ate together, same as always. She watched the way he moved—graceful, almost too smooth. Not like someone trying to be perfect. But like someone who already was.
"Something on your mind?" he asked gently, noticing her long stare.
She blinked and smiled. "Just thinking. That's all."
"You sure?" he asked.
She nodded. "I'm sure."
But even as she smiled at him, the questions pulsed beneath the surface of her mind like an underground drum.
What did he forget?
What still remembered him?
And how long did she have before the truth came for them both?
---
That night, long after he had fallen asleep, Velma sat awake in the dim light of the bedside lamp, staring at Daniel's sleeping form. The warmth of his breath. The rhythm of his chest. He looked like every other man.
But what if he wasn't?
What if the man she married—who she kissed, laughed with, held every night—was something else entirely?
Was he still Daniel?
Or was Daniel only the part he remembered?
She touched his hand gently. He didn't stir.
Velma looked toward the window.
The moon was full.
And for the briefest moment, just a flicker in time, she thought she saw a shadow move in the glass—not outside, not inside—but between.
---
The house held its breath again.
So did she.
But in the dark, one truth became clear:
She wasn't just watching him now.
The house was watching her, too.