The Temperature of Things Unseen
By
Olivia Salter
By the time the heat settled in for good, Monique had already stopped calling it weather.
Weather came and went. Weather shifted, cooled, broke into storms. Weather didn’t sit on your chest at night and wait for you to fall asleep.
This did.
The first night the power cut out, Monique and Reginald dragged their mattresses into the living room, chasing what little air moved through the house.
“It’ll come back,” Reginald said, sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. “Grid just overloaded.”
Monique sat near the window, fanning herself with a folded grocery receipt. The air didn’t move. Even the curtains hung like they’d given up.
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I was right. It came back.”
“For two hours.”
“That’s still coming back.”
She didn’t respond. The silence stretched, thick and sticky.
Outside, the cicadas screamed.
Inside, the house held its breath.
By morning, the air felt… used.
Not just warm—spent. Like something had already breathed it before her, taken what it needed, and left the rest behind.
Monique stood at the sink, letting the tap run over her wrists. The water wasn’t cold.
It wasn’t even cool.
It felt like it had been sitting somewhere dark, waiting.
“You’re gonna run the bill up,” Reginald called from the hallway.
She turned it off.
“I’ll pay it.”
“With what?”
“With the same money I always use.”
He leaned against the doorway, watching her. Sweat clung to his temples, but he didn’t seem bothered.
“You stress too much,” he said. “It’s just heat.”
Monique dried her hands slowly.
“Heat doesn’t feel like this.”
The first strange thing happened that afternoon.
Monique walked back from the corner store, a bag of melting ice in one hand, her shirt damp against her back. The sun hung low and swollen, casting long shadows across the road.
She stopped at the edge of Maple Street.
Her shadow didn’t.
It took one more step forward.
Just one.
Then snapped back.
She stared at the pavement until her eyes watered.
“Heat,” she muttered. “Just heat.”
The ice in her hand had already begun to drip.
That night, Reginald left the front door open.
“Trying to cool the place down,” he said when she snapped at him.
“You’re letting the heat in.”
“It’s already in.”
He said it casually. Too casually.
Monique closed the door anyway.
The birds went silent the next day.
Not gradually. Not the way seasons change or storms roll in.
One moment, they were there—arguing, flitting, filling the sky with noise.
The next—
Nothing.
The sky stretched empty and pale, like something had wiped it clean.
Reginald noticed too.
“Feels weird,” he said, standing on the porch. “Too quiet.”
Monique watched the power lines instead. They hummed louder now. Louder than she remembered.
Like they were trying to replace something that had gone missing.
That was also the day time slipped.
Monique put a pot of water on the stove, turned her back for a second—
And when she looked again, it was already boiling.
Violently.
She stepped back, heart thudding.
“I just turned that on.”
Reginald shrugged from the couch. “You probably didn’t notice.”
“I did notice.”
“You forget stuff sometimes.”
“I don’t forget turning on a stove.”
He didn’t argue. Just watched her.
Smiling faintly.
That night, Monique dreamed of heat.
Not fire.
Not sun.
Just pressure.
Something vast pressing against her from all sides, slow and patient, like it had all the time in the world.
She woke up sweating.
But the sweat felt wrong.
Cold.
“Reginald?” she called.
No answer.
She sat up.
The house creaked.
Not the usual settling of wood.
Something slower.
Rhythmic.
Inhale.
The walls expanded slightly.
Exhale.
They drew back.
Monique froze.
“Inhale.”
The curtains lifted, though the windows were closed.
“Exhale.”
They fell.
She stood, heart pounding, and stepped into the hallway.
“Reginald?”
His door was open.
His bed empty.
She found him outside.
Standing in the yard.
Barefoot.
Staring at the sky.
“What are you doing?” she asked, rushing toward him.
The ground beneath her feet felt soft.
Not enough to sink—but enough to notice.
Reginald didn’t turn.
“It’s quieter out here,” he said.
“It’s 3 in the morning.”
“So?”
“You’re standing in the yard like—” She stopped herself. “Come inside.”
He turned then.
Too slowly.
“I feel… clearer,” he said.
His voice sounded dry.
Like paper rubbed together.
Monique reached for his arm.
The moment her fingers touched his skin, she pulled back.
“Jesus—Reginald, you’re burning up.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
His tone wasn’t angry.
It was… certain.
She dragged him inside anyway.
Closed the door.
Locked it.
The next day, her phone buzzed at 2:13 AM.
Monique stared at the screen, her stomach tightening.
Unknown Message
But the number wasn’t unknown.
It was hers.
Don’t fall asleep tomorrow.
She sat up, breath shallow.
“I didn’t send that.”
Reginald stirred on the couch.
“What?”
She showed him the phone.
He squinted.
“Probably a glitch.”
“From my number?”
“Phones been acting weird. You said that yourself.”
He rolled over.
Went back to sleep.
Monique didn’t.
By the fourth week, the heat had weight.
You could feel it settle on your shoulders the moment you stepped outside.
Breathing wasn’t hard—but it felt… intentional.
Like the air had to be accepted.
Reginald stopped drinking water.
Monique noticed because she started counting.
“You haven’t had anything all day,” she said.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“That’s not normal.”
“Neither is this heat.”
“That’s exactly why you should be drinking.”
He shrugged.
“I don’t need it.”
That night, Monique filled a glass and handed it to him.
“Drink.”
He took it.
Held it.
Then set it down untouched.
“You’re acting weird,” she said.
He smiled faintly.
“You’re just noticing.”
The mirrors started changing after that.
At first, it was a delay.
Monique brushed her teeth—her reflection followed a second too late.
Then two.
Then—
One morning, she lifted her hand—
And her reflection moved first.
She stumbled back, knocking into the sink.
“No.”
The reflection stared at her.
Perfectly still.
Then, slowly—
It smiled.
Monique smashed the mirror.
The sound echoed through the house.
Reginald appeared in the doorway.
“What happened?”
“The mirror—”
He looked at the shards.
Then at her.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Didn’t you see it?” she demanded. “It moved before I did.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Maybe it’s just faster than you now.”
The water changed next.
It didn’t cool.
It clung.
Monique stepped out of the shower, droplets hanging on her skin like glass beads, refusing to fall.
She wiped her arm.
They stayed.
She leaned closer to the mirror—
The unbroken one in the hallway—
And froze.
In the reflection of the water—
She wasn’t in her house.
A wide, empty plain stretched behind her.
The sky was red.
Not bright—swollen.
And far in the distance—
Something stood.
Watching.
She jerked back.
The image snapped away.
“Reginald,” she called, voice shaking.
He didn’t answer.
She found him in the yard again.
Standing in the sun.
Still.
“You need to come inside,” she said.
He didn’t move.
“You hear it now, don’t you?” he asked.
“Hear what?”
He smiled.
“Let it in.”
The words slipped into her ears like something already familiar.
Like something she had almost remembered.
“No,” she said. “No, that’s not—”
“You’re fighting it,” Reginald said gently.
“You’re not?”
He shook his head.
“Why would I?”
Monique stepped closer.
The ground felt softer now.
Warmer.
“Because something’s wrong,” she said. “Because this isn’t normal.”
“Normal doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“Not anymore.”
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
And for a moment—just a moment—
She saw something underneath his calm.
Something distant.
“It’s not taking us,” he said quietly.
“Then what is it doing?”
He smiled.
Softly.
“It’s remembering us.”
Monique grabbed his arm.
“Come inside.”
His feet sank.
Just slightly.
But enough.
She froze.
“Reginald—”
He didn’t react.
Didn’t even look down.
The ground softened beneath him.
Receiving.
“No,” she said, pulling at him. “No, no, no—”
The earth resisted her.
Not pushing back.
Just… holding him.
“Reginald, move!”
He looked at her.
Calm.
Peaceful.
“It’s not hot… where it is.”
His legs disappeared first.
No tearing.
No breaking.
Just… gone.
Monique screamed.
Pulled harder.
The ground pulled him deeper.
“Reginald!”
His hand slipped from hers.
And then—
He was gone.
The ground sealed itself.
Leaving behind a perfect imprint.
Still warm.
Monique dropped to her knees.
Scraped at the earth.
Dug with her hands until her fingers burned.
“Come back!”
But nothing answered.
No one came.
Because by then—
Others were already gone.
The temperature reached 117.
The sky turned white.
Not bright.
Not cloudy.
Just… empty.
There were no shadows anymore.
Monique stopped sleeping.
Stopped trusting anything that reflected.
Stopped answering her phone.
But the messages kept coming.
You let him go.
She threw the phone across the room.
It buzzed again.
Now let yourself.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
The house breathed faster now.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Monique stepped outside.
The ground felt soft beneath her feet.
Alive.
She stood where Reginald had disappeared.
Looked down at the imprint.
“I remember you,” she said.
Her voice cracked.
But even as she spoke—
Something slipped.
His face.
She frowned.
Tried to picture him.
And couldn’t.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no—”
She dropped to her knees.
Pressed her hands into the ground.
Something pressed back.
She jerked away.
Heart racing.
“It’s not real,” she said. “It’s not—”
But the voice returned.
Closer now.
Let it in.
The air thickened.
The heat pressed deeper.
Monique stood.
Tried to run.
The road looped.
Bent back on itself.
She stumbled.
Fell.
Her hand hit the ground.
It gave way.
Soft.
Warm.
She tried to pull back.
But her arm sank.
“No.”
She clawed at the surface.
But the earth held her.
Gently.
She tried to scream—
But she couldn’t remember his name.
Her body stilled.
The heat moved through her.
Not burning.
Not hurting.
Changing.
And somewhere—
Beyond the white sky—
Something vast and patient shifted.
Not hungry.
Not cruel.
Just—
Awake.
The heat didn’t take her.
It finished remembering her.
.webp)
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