For weeks, she returned like clockwork—same spot, same shimmer, same mysterious stillness. That red car, always parked just beyond the curve in the lane. Familiar. Alluring.
Until one day, someone else noticed.
As we approached the office gates, my colleague Liam nudged Noah.
“That’s a classic, isn’t it?” he whispered, nodding toward her car.
I stopped in my tracks.
“You see it?” I asked, careful not to sound too eager.
Liam squinted. “Yeah, red coupe. Definitely vintage. Looks… untouched. But strange—no one’s ever seen anyone inside.”
That was the first time someone else acknowledged it. Even though he sees different model and differed colour still its a red car.
Curious, I started asking a few others. But not everyone could see what I saw.
Ava, bright and sharp-eyed, laughed when I mentioned it.
“That spot’s always empty,” she said. “I park near it every day. Maybe you’re dreaming.”
But Elina, the quiet one from our team, had a different reaction.
“I thought I saw something inside once,” she murmured. “A red cloth. Draped across the passenger seat. It looked… ceremonial. Almost like it didn’t belong to this time.”
I asked, “are you talking about red car?”
Elina, “Yes, blood red colour, with so many scratches on sides”
And then Jonas, who I walked with some mornings, shared something stranger.
“I didn’t see the car,” he said. “But I saw a red cloth floating above that space. In the air. Like silk in water. It hovered… just for a second. Then it disappeared.”
He paused. “I was the only one who reacted. Everyone else just kept walking.”
That evening, in the quiet of our apartment, I brought it up with my roommate Emil.
“You think ghosts are real?” I asked.
He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged.
“Not like the stories. But I believe in… traces. Residue. People don’t always leave cleanly.”
“Are they always bad?”
“Not all. Some are lost. Some just want to be seen.”
We fell into silence. I pulled out the sticky note I’d kept since the first week.
KA 09–1978
“That’s the number on her car,” I said.
We tried looking it up—old vehicle records, forums, even archived accident reports.
Nothing. No mention of the number. No match.
It was like it had never existed.
And still, I could picture it clearly. The shine, the curve, the stillness.
It didn’t scare me.
It fascinated me.
That car wasn’t chasing me.
It was pulling me in.
A few days later, Jonas visited our place. We were just hanging out when he spotted the sticky note on my wall.
He stepped closer. “That number…”
I looked over.
“You’ve seen it?”
His brows furrowed. “It’s almost the same as what I saw the day that cloth thing happened. I remember the digits. But the prefix… felt different somehow.”
He couldn’t explain it. Neither could I.
Emil muttered, “What if it’s not the same car in every version? What if it’s one… trying to become many?”
We all fell quiet.
That night, I had a dream.
I was standing by my apartment window. The street below was wrapped in a silver fog. And in the middle of that mist, parked under the flickering lamp, was her red car. Unmoving. Perfect.
She was sitting on the bonnet again—legs crossed, dress gently rippling in the breeze.
Her head turned. Slowly.
She looked right at me, though I was five floors up.
And smiled.
I didn’t wake up afraid. I woke up wishing I could fall back in.
Since then, I haven’t seen her outside the street.
Not once.
It’s been two months now.
The red car is gone.
No shimmer on the pavement.
No figure on the bonnet.
No floating red cloth.
Some days I wonder if I imagined it all.
Other days, I walk that street with a quiet hope—half expecting her to be there, just around the bend.
But the space remains empty.
Silent.
Like it’s holding its breath.
As if she’s waiting.
Or watching.
Or choosing… when to return.
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