Ava didn't sleep that night either.
She just sat in the corner of the motel room, knees pulled to her chest, the last tape still echoing in her skull. The air smelled like old sheets and rust. Eli was sprawled on the bed, fully clothed, one arm over his eyes, pretending to rest—but his body was tense. Like he knew she was still unraveling.
And maybe she was.
Because ever since they stepped out of that room back at Ridgeview, the world felt different.
Louder. Heavier. Clearer—but not in a comforting way.
More like she was finally seeing the cracks in everything—and realizing she'd been walking across glass this whole time.
She glanced at the duffel on the table. Inside: the rest of Em's tapes. The faded photo. A lighter. A map they didn't understand yet.
And the key.
Still warm from her hand.
---
Morning came slow. Like it didn't really want to.
Eli stirred around six, sat up with a quiet groan, rubbing his face like he'd aged a decade overnight.
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough.
Ava shrugged. "Define 'okay.'"
He gave a tired, almost-smile. "Still breathing?"
"Barely."
She stood and stretched, her spine popping in protest. Then walked over to the sink, splashing cold water on her face like it could wash the static out of her head. Her reflection looked like someone she didn't quite recognize yet. Not broken—but cracked in new ways.
Stronger in others.
Eli watched her from the bed. "We should move."
Ava nodded. "Yeah. Before they realize we were ever here."
---
They didn't talk much in the car.
Just the occasional glance, the shuffle of a cassette tape, the quiet rustle of road maps on Eli's lap. Every once in a while, she'd catch him looking at her like he wanted to ask something—but didn't know if she was ready to answer.
And maybe she wasn't.
Because some questions weren't just hard.
Some questions changed things.
And if he asked, Do you still love her?—she wasn't sure what would fall apart first: her mouth, or his silence.
---
It wasn't until they hit an old gas station off Highway 50 that she finally spoke again.
"She said not to be afraid of what she's become."
Eli paused mid-pour at the coffee machine. "…Yeah."
Ava leaned against the shelf beside the snacks. "What if that means she's… dangerous now?"
He looked at her over the steaming cup. "Do you think she'd hurt you?"
"No," Ava answered quickly.
Too quickly.
Then, quieter: "I think she'd hurt anyone who got between us."
Eli nodded slowly, like that tracked. "That's love, sometimes."
She shot him a look. "That's not healthy."
"No. But it's real."
Ava swallowed.
There was a weird comfort in that. In knowing someone might be a little broken… but still love you that fiercely.
Even if they had to become something else just to survive.
---
They drove for hours after that.
Followed the faded red lines Em had drawn on that makeshift map in the Ridgeview room. Half the towns didn't exist anymore. The others felt like ghosts—empty storefronts, cracked sidewalks, no kids, no music.
Until they reached Linden Hollow.
It wasn't marked on any modern GPS.
But Em had drawn a star beside it, circled in ink.
There was something about the name.
It made Ava's stomach twist in that familiar, wrong kind of way. Like her body remembered it even if her brain didn't.
They parked near a boarded-up library. Crows scattered from the trees above. The wind smelled like pine and rain.
Ava stepped out, her boots crunching on gravel.
"Anything feel familiar?" Eli asked.
She didn't answer right away.
But then—
"That house," she said softly, pointing across the street. "With the red shutters."
Eli followed her gaze.
It was a small house—crooked porch, one shutter hanging loose. Forgotten. But the closer Ava got, the more real it became. Like it had been waiting for her. Like it knew.
She stepped up to the porch.
Touched the doorknob.
It turned.
Unlocked.
Inside, dust coated everything. But the kind of dust that settles after something ends—not from time alone. The living room was cramped, couch half-covered in a sheet. A photo frame faced down on the mantle.
She picked it up.
Her breath caught.
It was her. And Em. Younger. Smiling.
Not posing—laughing. Real. Messy. Their heads pressed together like they were each other's gravity.
Eli stepped up behind her.
"You lived here," he said quietly.
She nodded.
"I think we ran here," she whispered.
He didn't ask from what.
They both knew the answer was too long and too sharp to name out loud.
---
They explored the house in silence. Em's handwriting was everywhere—scribbled notes, torn corners of pages. Ava traced her fingers across them like they were prayers.
There was a small music box on the windowsill.
She wound it.
The melody was slow, off-tune. Something sad and sweet—the kind of lullaby you only remember in pieces.
"I've heard this before," she murmured.
"In your dreams?" Eli asked.
"In her dreams."
---
They found the second tape upstairs.
Labeled only with a question mark.
Ava hesitated, then slid it into the recorder.
EM (tape): "If you're hearing this, it means you made it back to the Hollow."
Ava exhaled slowly, sinking to the floor beside the bed.
EM (tape): "I used to think we could outrun everything. That if we just loved hard enough, loud enough, we'd drown out the noise they put in our heads. But that's not how this works, Ava."
Pause. Rustle of paper.
EM (tape): "They took things from us. Names. Time. But they couldn't touch this. This house. This room. The way you looked at me when we were seventeen and scared but still stupidly sure we'd make it."
Silence again. Longer, heavier.
EM (tape): "I don't know what version of me you'll find. But I hope she remembers how to look at you that way too."
Click.
Ava stared at the recorder.
Her heart hurt in new ways now.
Not the sharp pain of forgetting.
But the aching, slow burn of remembering too much.
The tape had stopped. But Ava was still holding the recorder like it might start speaking again.
Like Em might've left one more breath, one more line, one more soft laugh for her to cling to.
But the room stayed quiet, dust hanging in the light like static. Eli didn't say anything either. He just sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching her with that unreadable gaze he wore when he knew words would only make things worse.
"I used to sit right here," she said finally, voice low, almost childlike. Her fingers brushed the edge of the windowsill. "Right after school. Shoes still on. She'd play her guitar and hum something until I forgot what the day even felt like."
Eli leaned back, letting his hands fall to his sides. "She sang?"
Ava nodded. "Not for crowds. Not even for recordings. Just for me."
Then, quieter, "She said my name like it was a song."
The ache wrapped tighter around her ribs.
Because she remembered it now—the sound of Em's voice, warm and steady, the way it used to pull her back from every dark place.
But all she had now were echoes.
---
They stayed in the house that night.
There was something about it—like even in its abandoned state, it still carried the scent of warmth. Safety. Like parts of Em had never really left.
Eli found a few candles in the kitchen. Lit two and placed them on opposite corners of the living room like that would somehow protect the space between them.
Ava curled up on the couch, blanket pulled to her chin, eyes fixed on the flickering light.
Eli sat across from her, cross-legged on the rug. His voice broke the silence first.
"You don't have to find her alone, you know."
She blinked at him.
"I'm not," she said, tone sharper than she meant it to be.
But he didn't flinch. "That's not what I mean."
He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.
"You keep carrying everything like it's only yours. Like if it gets too heavy, you'll just collapse and no one'll notice."
"I'm not trying to be dramatic," she muttered.
"I didn't say you were." His eyes held hers, steady. "I'm saying you don't have to keep bleeding quietly."
Something in her cracked at that.
Because he did notice.
And even if she hadn't asked, even if she'd tried to pretend she was fine, he still saw through the armor.
Still stayed.
---
They talked, finally.
Not about the tapes, or the key, or the people following them.
But about music. Dumb school memories. The first time she kissed Em—on a rooftop, with sneakers dangling off the edge and the city humming below them.
And then about the silence that came after Em vanished.
Ava confessed how the world had started sounding different. Like every song was missing a chord. Every color felt two shades too dull.
"I kept thinking she'd walk through the door," Ava whispered. "For months. Years, even. I'd dream of her knocking. And I'd open it. And she'd say, You left the window unlocked again, dummy."
Eli didn't laugh.
But he smiled.
"I would've liked her," he said.
Ava glanced up. "You would've flirted with her."
He raised an eyebrow. "Would she have flirted back?"
"Absolutely not."
That made him chuckle. "Then yeah, definitely my type."
---
They found more fragments the next morning.
Not tapes—clues.
A notebook wedged between the wall and the bookshelf. Pages filled with sketches and strange symbols. Dates. Crossed-out names. One word circled so many times it nearly tore through the page:
DORMIRE.
Ava ran her thumb over it, pulse rising.
"She mentioned that word before," she murmured. "In one of the first tapes. Said it wasn't just a place."
Eli took the notebook from her, flipping through carefully. "Looks like a code. Some kind of trail."
There was a map inside. Hand-drawn. The Hollow marked in red. A trail of Xs moving west.
She traced the line.
"She's been moving. Always a step ahead."
"Or leaving a path on purpose," Eli said. "For you."
Ava looked up.
Her eyes stung, but she nodded. "Yeah. For me."
---
They left the house around noon.
Ava lingered on the porch, staring at the door one last time.
Not knocking. Just… remembering.
"Do you think she knows we're this close?" she asked.
Eli slid on his jacket, shielding his eyes from the sun. "If she's anything like you, yeah. She knows."
Ava smiled faintly.
Then whispered, "I hope she's scared."
Eli turned to her. "Scared of you?"
"No. Scared of what happens when we find each other again."
---
They hit the road with the notebook in the glovebox, the second tape in her coat pocket, and too many unanswered questions between them.
But something had shifted.
Ava didn't feel as hollow anymore.
The pain was still there, sure. Sharp in the mornings. Loud in the quiet.
But now it had direction.
And beneath all the grief, there was a flicker of something else.
Resolve.
She didn't know what Em had become.
Didn't know what waited at the end of this twisted breadcrumb trail.
But she knew who she was now.
And whoever tried to stand in her way?
Well.
They'd regret underestimating a girl who remembered what it was like to be loved without mercy.