3 min read · Anonymous · Premium
The notification arrived the way they all did that year, a flat municipal chime on my phone at 9:14 in the morning. A confirmed case had passed through our district. The city, in its careful, anonymous diligence, had published the patient's movements so the rest of us could check whether our paths had crossed.
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My husband swore he was buried in spreadsheets all day. Then I opened the lighting app on my phone and saw what color our bedroom had been at two in the afternoon.
I only bought the camera to watch the cat eat. One slow Tuesday afternoon I opened the app and saw a woman I had never met walking through my living room.
She pointed at a pub by the train station and asked one small, strange question. Weeks later I understood why it had snagged in my mind like a splinter.
I found his old Fitbit in a drawer. It synced to my phone and showed the truth: he was never working night shifts.
He set up a shared photo album so the whole family could post vacation pictures. One morning a new photo appeared that nobody in the family had taken.
The reflection in the TV screen showed a woman tying her shoes at the foot of his bed.
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