The Man Across the Sky
It started as an ordinary morning in Manhattan. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen, wrapping around me like a familiar blanket. I was leaning against the granite counter, scrolling absentmindedly through emails, when my phone buzzed.
It was my sister, Kaye. Usually, her calls were calm, precise, almost methodical—a reflection of her years as an airline captain. But this call was different. There was an urgency, an edge in her voice I’d never heard before.
“Ava,” she began, her words clipped, almost a whisper. “I… I need to ask you something strange. Something I can’t explain.”I frowned, gripping my coffee mug. “Okay. What is it?”
“Is your husband home? Aiden… is he with you right now?”
Confusion twisted in my stomach. “Yes,” I said. “He’s sitting in the living room. Why?”A pause. The kind that stretches uncomfortably long. Then her voice dropped to a whisper so low I had to strain to hear. “That can’t be true.”
My eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m flying—thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, en route to Paris. And he… he’s here. In seat 3A. Drinking champagne. Holding hands with a blonde woman.”
I froze, coffee halfway to my lips. My heart began to pound like a drum in my chest.
I turned and looked toward the living room. And there he was. Aiden. My husband. Sitting on the couch, the morning sun streaming over his shoulders, reading the Financial Times. The newspaper rustled as he flipped a page. He looked perfectly normal. Ordinary.
“No. That… that’s impossible,” I whispered to the phone. “He’s right here.”
Kaye’s voice was strained. “I know it sounds insane, Ava. I’ve been flying for years. I know him. It’s him, I swear. I’m watching him right now. Every detail. His smile. The way he holds his glass. His hand… even the little quirks only you’d notice.”
My stomach turned cold. “I don’t understand… how?”
I didn’t have time to process her words before the door creaked. Aiden walked in, his usual crooked grin lighting up his face. The same grin that had made me fall in love with him all those years ago. He held out his empty coffee mug.
“Who’s calling so early, darling?”
I swallowed, my voice shaky. “Just… Kaye. Pre-flight check.”
He nodded casually, still smiling. But even as he moved toward the kitchen counter, my heart hammered with a growing unease.
I hung up, my hands trembling. And then my phone buzzed. A message from Kaye. A picture.
I opened it. My blood ran cold.
It was him. Aiden. On the plane. Champagne flute in hand. Blonde woman beside him. Every detail identical to what Kaye had described. The sharp jawline. The slightly extended pinky finger. The smile. It was undeniably him.
I dropped my phone, my hand shaking uncontrollably. I looked back at Aiden, who was now reaching for a croissant on the counter, humming softly.
The world tilted on its axis.
I took a step back, tripping over a chair. “Who… who are you?”
Aiden looked up at me, confused. “I… what do you mean?”
“You. You’re… you’re not real,” I whispered. “You can’t be. Kaye is seeing you on a plane. I’m seeing you here. How is this possible?”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Ava, I don’t—what are you talking about?”
I was trembling now, desperate, panicked. “I don’t know, but I can’t—”
Before I could finish, the lights flickered. Then went out.
My heart leapt into my throat. The apartment, bathed in sunlight moments ago, was plunged into an eerie darkness. Shadows stretched across the walls. And then I saw it—a figure, behind the outline of Aiden in the dim glow of emergency lighting.
It wasn’t him. But it was exactly like him.
I tried to scream, but my voice caught. The figure stepped forward. Smooth, deliberate. Its grin stretched impossibly wide.
“I love you, Ava,” it said, mimicking his voice perfectly. But there was no warmth. Only a cold, hollow echo of the man I knew.
I stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. My mind raced. Who—or what—was standing in my kitchen?
I needed answers. I ran to the home office, the emergency light flickering over my frantic movements. I logged into the building’s security system. Zooming in on the lobby footage from yesterday, I saw Aiden enter at 6:47 PM, waving at the doorman. Everything seemed normal.
Then I noticed something that made my stomach drop.
Another figure, moving behind him in the background of the video. Dressed in the same grey sweater. Same build. Same… face. But the eyes—there was something off. Something darker.
My phone buzzed again. Another message from Kaye: “Look outside.”
I hesitated. My hands were shaking. Slowly, I drew back the blinds.
Across the street, a figure stood still, watching. Grey sweater. Hands in pockets. The same silhouette as Aiden. My throat went dry.
And then the sound—the unmistakable click of the front door.
I spun around. Empty.
The lights flickered again. And when they stabilized, the figure was closer. In the doorway. Grinning. Not Aiden. Not quite human.
I backed away. Heart pounding, I stumbled into the kitchen. My phone rang—Kaye. But I couldn’t answer.
And then I heard the whisper, soft, chilling:
“You’re next, Ava.”
Before I could react, the lights went out completely. The apartment was swallowed by darkness.
When the emergency lights flickered back, I saw him—or it—sitting at the kitchen table. The real Aiden. My husband. Holding a newspaper. Calm. Ordinary. Smiling.
“Breakfast ready?” he asked casually.
I sank to the floor, shaking. The two realities had collided, and I had no idea which one I could trust.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Every glance, every shadow, every reflection in the mirror seemed to betray some hidden truth. I couldn’t tell which was real. And the messages from Kaye kept coming, blurry images, frantic texts: “It’s multiplying. Ava, he’s not just one…”
By nightfall, I was exhausted, terrified. I locked every door, checked every window. But sleep didn’t come.
In the dead of night, I heard it. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Approaching. Not Aiden’s. Something else.
I held my breath as the bedroom door creaked open.
A shadowy figure stepped in. Same grey sweater. Same face. Grin stretched impossibly wide.
But then—lightning-fast—it vanished.
The next morning, my building received an anonymous envelope. Inside: photos. Hundreds of them. Every angle. Every time I had ever been home with Aiden. Every detail recorded. And at the bottom, written in precise, dark ink: “You think you know him. You know nothing.”
And in that moment, I realized the truth I had been avoiding: the man I loved, the man I married, was no longer mine alone. And what had taken his place… was something I could never explain.
