The moment my eyes dropped to the kitchen counter, I saw them.
Tuna cans.
Not just one or two—dozens. Stacked in uneven little towers, some still damp, like they’d been rinsed and placed there in a hurry. Labels all the same. Cheap brand. The kind my mom never bought unless it was on sale.
My brother frowned. “Why would she…?”
I didn’t answer. I was already walking forward.
There was something wrong about the arrangement. It wasn’t random. The cans formed a loose ring around the stove—like a perimeter. Inside it, the cracked glass cooktop sat dark and silent, except for that faint, patient ticking underneath.
Then I noticed the labels more closely.
Not just tuna.
Each can had a handwritten mark on the lid. Dates. Times. Short notes.
“SUNDAY 5:40 – NORMAL”
“SUNDAY 5:55 – HEAT SPIKE”
“SUNDAY 6:03 – GLASS MOVED”
My throat went dry.
“This isn’t food storage,” I whispered.
My brother picked one up. “Mom doesn’t even eat canned tuna.”
The silence in the house pressed in harder.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
“DON’T TOUCH THE STOVE. IT ONLY HAPPENS WHEN IT’S PLUGGED IN.”
We froze.
From somewhere deep under the cooktop, the ticking stopped.
Completely.
For a second, everything felt worse in that absence.
Then—
click.
The stove light flickered on by itself.
