…I screamed when I saw the dining table already set.
Six plates. Six glasses. Steam still curling up from a pot in the center.
But the house was silent.
Too silent.
“Mom?” I called, stepping inside slowly. My voice sounded wrong in the air, like it didn’t belong there.
The living room TV was on—but paused. Frozen on a frame of a local news channel. The headline ticker at the bottom kept scrolling:
“FAMILY FOUND SAFE AFTER GAS LEAK INCIDENT AVERTED”
My stomach tightened. A gas leak?
I moved toward the kitchen.
That’s when I noticed it.
The stove.
The glass cooktop was cracked—but not broken cleanly. Not shattered. It looked… stressed. Like something had hit it from the inside and out at the same time. A pot was still sitting on it, slightly tilted, as if it had been moved in a hurry.
Then I saw her phone.
On the counter. Screen still lit.
One unread message from my brother.
And beneath it—an outgoing draft message from Mom that was never sent:
“DON’T COME TODAY. I SMELL GAS. I THINK SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE STOVE.”
My breath caught.
Behind me, the front door creaked.
I turned fast.
My brother was standing there, pale.
“I called the gas company,” he said quietly. “They said there was a leak… but also said something else.”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“They said the stove shouldn’t have been able to hold heat at all. It should’ve failed days ago.”
We both looked at the cracked glass cooktop again.
And for a second—
very faintly—
I heard something ticking from underneath it.
