I try my best to non-chalantly sip my coffee, but I watch as her eyes flicker from me to my Visitor. She seems to see him as well. A lump forms in my throat; all this time, I thought it was my brain slowly deteriorating, blaming me for the accident, but she sees it too. All I can think to do is observe her visitor. It shares an uncanny resemblance to mine, the only point of difference being its’ gender. Same unnervingly big build, same glowing yellow eyes, same tight, red skin that occasionally sends a spark shooting outwards. 3 arms, just like mine, and 2 hands on each arm. 3 legs, just like mine, and 2 feet on each leg. It looms over her, whispering in her ear and inaudibly laughing, when all of a sudden it makes contact with my Visitor. It breaks into hysterics, slumping on her shoulder and crying out, while she stiffens and tries her best not to pay attention. I look back at my Visitor, and she is not laughing. She is sitting there with the same sinister grin and yellow-eyed stare. Her eyes bore into mine, and her grin grows a fraction wider.

“Go talk to her,” She utters. Her raspy, deep voice shakes me to my core, but I am not brave enough to protest. I find my legs and make my way to her table, taking the seat across from the girl. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t argue.

“Hello. What is your name?” she asks. Her words are slow and enunciated, as if she had practiced what she was going to say.

“Henry,” I respond, “And yours?”

Her face turns pale, and she sucks in a deep breath while conjuring up her response. “Alice,”

My heart beat stops. It couldn’t be. I look at my Visitor, who is now doubled over in laughter, and feel my lunch return to my mouth.

It was not a coincidence. That I was sure of.

“Alice,” I parrot, “Are we dead?”

“No,” She responds before I can finish my final word, “No. My name is Alice and your name is Henry. Alice and Henry are not dead. They are very much alive. And they both can see everyone’s visitors.”

“Sorry,” I start, “what do you mean everyone’s?”

She stops breathing, her face turning crimson red, “you only see mine?” She asks.

“Everyone has a visitor?” I counter.

She runs over my question in her mind before slowly responding.

“Yes. Everyone has a visitor. Most people have tiny visitors. I’ve never seen one over the size of an average book. Except, of course, for mine. And now, yours,” I keep my breathing even, though I feel as though I might faint. My legs feel weak, but I manage to choke out, “How long has yours been here?”

“Fifteen years.”