The wind whipped around Eliot as he hurried down Chestnut Street, his boots crunching through the thin layer of snow that blanketed Philadelphia. His scarf fluttered, barely protecting his face from the bitter cold, but the chill in the air was nothing compared to the cold knot of fear that had settled in his chest.

Ida was gone, and it wasn’t just that she had disappeared—it was as if she had never existed.

Eliot had spent the past few days retracing every step, making every phone call, visiting every place they had shared. But each time, he hit a dead end. Friends looked at him with puzzled expressions when he asked about her.

Ida? Who’s that? Strangers in her favorite coffee shop swore they had never seen anyone fitting her description. And now, the texts, the photos—everything that had tied him to her—were vanishing.

He wasn’t losing his mind. He couldn’t be.

He stopped in front of her old apartment building and stared at the third-floor window where Ida’s plants had always thrived. There was no sign of her now. There were no plant pots on the ledge or warm light shining through the curtains she’d picked out.

He had buzzed to her apartment yesterday, but no one answered. The name “Ida Chambers” had disappeared from the building’s directory, leaving only a blank space where it should have been.

This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was erasure.

—

Eliot’s fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone and scrolled through his messages for the hundredth time. Their last conversation—plans for coffee, her mentioning something she needed to tell him—was gone. His entire message history with Ida had evaporated.

All that was left were blank spaces where their conversations should have been. His hands clenched. She had existed. She had to. They had been friends for years. He remembered her.

He opened Facebook, scrolling through his photos, searching for any trace of Ida. The pictures they took at the art gallery, her birthday, and even a casual lunch just weeks ago were gone. Every post that mentioned her, every comment she had left on his profile, had vanished. It was as though the universe had conspired to wipe her from existence.

But why?

Shutting off his phone, Eliot took a deep breath, forcing himself to think. There had to be answers somewhere. Ida had a family. They couldn’t deny her existence, not when they had raised her. Maybe they hadn’t been in touch for a while, but Eliot had met her mother once. He could call and explain—maybe Ida was lying low for some reason.

With renewed purpose, he dialed her mother’s number.

“Hello?” came the voice on the other end, warm but unfamiliar, as if it belonged to a stranger.

“Mrs. Chambers? It’s Eliot. I’m a friend of Ida’s.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “Who?”

“Eliot,” he repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. “Ida’s friend. We’ve known each other for years.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” she replied, confusion creeping into her tone. “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

Eliot’s heart sank. “No, please, Mrs. Chambers. I’ve met you before, when I came over for dinner last fall. You were there with Ida.”

“Fall? Are you sure you’ve got the right person? I don’t have a daughter named Ida.”

The words hit Eliot like a punch to the gut. “But—no, that can’t be. She’s your daughter. You—” His voice wavered. “You must remember her.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’ve made a mistake.”

The line went dead.

Eliot stood frozen, phone pressed to his ear long after the call ended. His mind reeled. How could Ida’s own mother not remember her? How could she deny ever having a daughter? Panic clawed at him. It wasn’t possible.

—

When Eliot returned to his apartment, his hands shook uncontrollably. He unlocked the door and collapsed onto his couch, staring blankly at the coffee table. In the middle, there sat a small wooden figurine—one that Ida had carved and given to him as a gift last Christmas.

He reached for it, desperate for tangible proof that she had been real. But the wood crumbled as his fingers brushed against the surface, breaking apart like ash. He gasped and pulled his hand back, watching as the figure disintegrated into dust before his eyes.

It wasn’t just her messages and photos—it was everything. Objects, memories, people’s minds—everything linked to her was being erased, as if she were being pulled out of existence itself.

He grabbed his phone again and called Tom, one of their mutual friends.

“Tom, please tell me you remember Ida,” Eliot said as soon as the call connected.

“Who?”

“Ida! Our friend Ida. You’ve met her a hundred times—she came to your birthday party last summer!”

“Eliot, I have no idea who you’re talking about. Are you feeling okay?”

Eliot wanted to scream. This was happening. It wasn’t in his head. “No, Tom. You know her. We all used to hang out together. She was there—she’s real.”

“I’m sorry, man. I think you need to take a break. Get some rest. You sound like you’re under a lot of stress.”

Eliot’s throat tightened as Tom’s words began to echo in his head. Under a lot of stress. Was that what everyone thought? Was that why no one believed him? His friends, her family—they were all treating him like he was losing his mind like he had conjured her out of nothing.

He stood abruptly and began pacing his apartment, running his hands through his hair. He had to prove it. There had to be some proof that he wasn’t imagining this. He opened his laptop and typed Ida’s name into every search engine and every social media site he could think of. Nothing. There are no accounts, no mentions, not a single photograph.

It was as if the entire world had conspired to erase her.

—

The more Eliot searched, the more isolated he became. Every lead, every scrap of proof, slipped through his fingers like sand. His friends no longer answered his calls, and when they did, their responses were curt, edged with concern. Even the police, whom he had approached earlier in the week, treated him like a lost cause. They had found nothing on Ida. No records, apartment, driver’s license, or birth certificate. Not even her name.

Eliot’s frustration boiled over, spilling into anger. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t. And yet, the world around him kept insisting that he was wrong, that Ida was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He could hear it in their voices, see it in how they looked at him now—with pity and doubt. His reality was slipping away, piece by piece.

It was a conspiracy. It had to be. Or something supernatural, something beyond reason, had plucked Ida from his life and left him stranded in this empty, altered version of reality. He couldn’t trust anyone. Not anymore.

Two days later, Eliot sat in a small, sterile room in the police precinct, a growing desperation clawing at him. He had come here as a last resort, hoping that somewhere, buried in their system, there would be a record of Ida—proof that he hadn’t lost his mind.

A graying and weathered detective sat across from him, his eyes scanning the sparse notes on the file in front of him.

“So, you’re looking for a woman named Ida Chambers?” the detective asked.

“Yes,” Eliot said, his voice tight with exhaustion. “We’ve been friends for years. I don’t know what’s happening, but she’s missing, and no one seems to remember her.”

The detective nodded slowly, typing into his computer. “We ran her name through our system. No record of anyone by that name.”

Eliot’s heart sank. “But that’s impossible. She lived here. She had a job. She—”

“There’s nothing,” the detective interrupted. “No address, no ID, no tax records. It’s like she never existed.”

Eliot slumped in his chair, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow. He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. There were no more words, no more arguments. It was as though the world had decided, with cruel certainty, to erase her from his life.

He stood and turned toward the door, his mind spinning with questions he could no longer answer. Who—or what—had done this? Why? And most terrifying of all, how much longer before he, too, started to forget her?

To Be Continued …

Read Part I here.