I didn’t call the rental company again. I didn’t ask for security footage, or timestamps, or the signature I already knew by heart. The truth, I realized, would never live in a printout or a customer-service script. It lived in the way my chest tightened when I passed the exit she used to take, in the way my fingers still hovered over her contact at red lights. The charge was just a receipt for something I couldn’t return: the life we’d had, itemized in small, ordinary ghosts.

In time, I stopped needing the mystery solved. Whether it was a glitch, a stranger, or some impossible echo no language could hold, it had done its work. It reminded me that love doesn’t vanish; it lingers in systems and sidewalks, in bank statements and borrowed cars, insisting—quietly, stubbornly—that gone and over are never quite the same thing.