Jay paused at the entrance of her bedroom, her brows furrowed. There, lying on the floor just outside her door, was a small object. She bent down and picked it up between her fingers. It was a button—round, smooth, and gleaming white with a delicate golden rim. It didn't look old, but it didn't look new either. Something about it unsettled her, though she couldn't quite say why.
She straightened up and looked around. The corridor was empty. No footsteps. No sounds. The house was still.
Her instinct was to take it to her mother.
"Mama," she called, walking into the kitchen where her mother was wiping down the counter. "What is this?"
Her mother didn't look up. "What is what?"
Jay extended her palm. "It's a button. I found it outside my room."
Her mother spared it a passing glance. "Who does it belong to? Is it yours?"
Jay frowned. "No, it's not mine. I don't have anything that uses a button like this."
Her mother dried her hands and shrugged. "Then ask your father."
Is it not yours? Jay questioned
"Jay… take it to your father" her mother said irritatingly.
Jay turned away, gripping the small button in her palm, and made her way to the living room, where her father was pouring hot water into his coffee cup, the aroma of roasted beans sharp in the air.
"Dad?" she said softly.
He looked up, raising his brows.
She held out the button. "Is this yours?"
He took it gently between his fingers, turning it over and holding it against the pads of his thumb and forefinger. "Hmm…"
"Well?" she asked.
He handed it back to her. "No, not mine. Maybe it's yours?"
Jay shook her head firmly. "No way. I don't even own a dress with this kind of button. I would've remembered something so specific."
Her father sipped his coffee and said nothing more.
No one seemed to care.
She sighed, turned on her feet, and went back to her room, the button still clutched in her hand.
Once inside, she changed her clothes, pulling on a soft cotton shirt and jeans. The moment her hands were free, she sat on the edge of her bed and held the button again, this time turning it over slowly, examining its rim, the way the gold caught the light like a halo.
That was when it hit her—the feeling. A sensation. Like someone was there. Someone had been in her room. She stood abruptly and looked around her breath was caught. The door was closed. The curtains were still. Her room was just as she left it.
But something was off. She searched. Under the bed, behind the curtains, behind the closet door. Nothing. No footprints, no signs of intrusion.
Except the button.
She looked at it again.
And her mind reeled back—to the day she had that unbearable stomach pain. That strange moment, floating between pain and unconsciousness, when she'd seen something. Or someone. A dream… or was it?
Was it real?
Jay was suspecting and questioning something but didn't have the answers.
With a heavy breath, she walked over to her bag, unzipped her wallet, and slid the button inside, nestling it between old receipts and coins. She headed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a container. Mashed potatoes and chicken. It was cold. She didn't bother to heat it. She just sat down and began eating absently, her thoughts miles away.
"Jay?" her mother asked, breaking through the haze. "What are you thinking, my dear?"
Jay didn't hear her.
Then her mother clinked a spoon against glass snapping her attention back.
Her mother was looking at her, fork paused mid-air. "Jay. I'm talking to you. How was your day? What are you doing, huh?"
Jay blinked, disoriented. "Um… nothing. It was a good day. As usual. Yeah, just normal stuff."
Her mother gave her a strange, unreadable look, and then turned her gaze downward, eating without another word.
Jay tried to go back to eating, but she felt her father's eyes on her.
He cleared his throat. "Jay?"
"Yes, Dad?" she answered, barely meeting his gaze.
"Are you alright, my dear?"
She smiled. "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"
He leaned forward slightly. "Because lately… you seem different. Like you're in your own world. You're distracted. Is something bothering you?"
Jay opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her mother cut in sharply.
"How can she not be fine?" she said, her voice laced with irritation. "She stays home all day. She goes to the library, to the university, and eats whatever she wants. What could possibly be wrong?"
Her father hesitated. "I just thought—"
"Well," her mother interrupted again, "you should be asking me how I'm doing. I had the worst day. There's trouble at the company. Do you even care about that?"
And just like that, her father's attention slipped away, pulled in her mother's direction like always.
Jay watched them for a moment, then quietly set down her fork and stood up.
"I'm done," she said, and left the table, her voice barely more than a whisper.
She went back to her room. And lying on the bed curled under the blanket. But sleep didn't come quickly. The button called to her. She reached into her wallet and pulled it out, holding it between her fingers.
Is it his? She was saying silently then she looked at her hand… she still felt the warmth and comfort of the hand holding hers that day, sending a tingling in her body. She shut her eyes and everything came back to her.
The memory—or the dream—began to replay behind her eyes. The scene from before. And while thinking she drifted away in sleep.
...........
He was looked around the room, cautious and alert looking for something, but even after keen search he couldn't find it.
Who are you? He heard her whisper and came closer, careful with every step to check if she is really asking or if his ears were playing a trick on him. He sat near her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face with the back of his fingers.
His eyes landed on the button in her palm and they widened with panic and a word escaped his mouth.
No, no, no…
He looked from the button to her sleeping face, then back again.
Slowly, almost reverently, he reached to take it. But the moment his fingers touched hers, Jay's grip closed tight around his hand.
He froze.
"Who are you?" she murmured again, her eyes still closed. His heart slammed against his chest. He lost balance, stumbled backward, and hit the floor with a muted thud. But Jay didn't wake. She hadn't woken. She was sleep-talking—but he didn't know that. Not right away.
He stared at her for a moment, breathless, then sighed in relief. A sheepish smile curved his lips.
"Ah…She's dreaming," he whispered to himself.
He gently eased his hand free, but not without a strange reluctance. Carefully, he plucked the button from her palm. Then he stood up and turned toward the window, pausing just before leaving. He looked back at her, sleeping soundly under the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtain and the dim lamp.
Kneeling beside her once more, he whispered, "As strongly as I never want to leave your hand… especially when you are making the first move…" he chuckled with his hand on his mouth… then continued.... "it's not yet time."
He ran his fingers across the air just above hers, never touching, as though afraid the contact might wake her again.
And then with a regretful smile, like a shadow swallowed by wind, he vanished into the night through the window…
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