Kieran's Point of View
The air felt heavier the farther we walked. Not like a storm was coming — more like the storm had already passed, wrecked everything in its wake, and left silence behind to sweep up the pieces.
Jean led the way, sure-footed, like she'd made this walk before. Maybe she had. Maybe we had. Together. In another life. Or in this one, before everything slipped sideways.
We didn't say much. Words felt too small, too flimsy—like trying to build a house out of paper in a hurricane.
The trees closed in around us, tall and still, like quiet witnesses. I swear they were listening. Watching. Judging me.
"You okay back there?" Jean tossed the question over her shoulder, casual, like I wasn't questioning reality, my memory, the entire fabric of time itself.
"Define okay," I muttered. "Because if it means 'not totally spiraling into existential panic,' then no. Not really. But I'm vertical. So, there's that."
She huffed a breath—not quite a laugh, but close. I'd take it.
The path curved, narrowing until it spit us out into a small clearing. That's when I saw it.
A cabin.
Old, wood darkened by time and weather, windows like tired eyes. The front porch sagged like it had stories it didn't want to tell.
Something inside me twitched.
I'd been here.
Not just dream-memory, not déjà vu. Real. Tangible. Like my body remembered even if my brain was too fried to translate.
"This place..." I breathed.
Jean nodded, stepping closer to the porch. Her hand hovered near the door, but she didn't touch it.
I stepped forward, boots crunching on gravel, every cell in my body screaming something big was just beneath the surface. Like I could dig through the dirt with my hands and find the truth buried underneath.
I looked at the compass again. Still pointing north. Still steady.
The door creaked open like a sigh, like the cabin itself had just exhaled after holding its breath for ten years. I didn't want to move—not because I was scared, but because something in my spine whispered don't. Like stepping inside meant crossing a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
Jean didn't move either.
I stepped forward anyway. Apparently, I have the survival instincts of a horror movie protagonist. The boards groaned under my boots; the air inside the doorway was colder than it had any right to be.
And the smell. Old wood. Dust. And something beneath it—sharp, chemical, nostalgic. Like rain on asphalt and blood on your knuckles.
Inside was dim. Light filtered through grime-covered windows like it had second thoughts. But I could still see… stuff.
A table. Papers. Scattered like a storm had blown through and hit only one room.
Drawings. Maps. Words in handwriting that looked like mine but not quite.
Then—in the center of the table—a photo.
I froze.
A boy with storm-colored eyes and a grin like he'd never been afraid of anything in his life.
Rowan.
I couldn't breathe.
"That's Rowan," I said. "That's… before."
Jean stepped beside me, eyes locked on the photo. "You remember?"
"Not fully. Not in crisp, 4K clarity. But the shape of it was there. The feeling," I said.
We were laughing. Sunlight on our faces. Arms draped around each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we hadn't been touched by tragedy yet. Like we hadn't made the vow.
"He swore he'd come back," I murmured. "No matter what."
Jean nodded, eyes glassy. "And he didn't."
Silence. Heavy. Like grief was a person standing in the corner, watching us with folded arms.
Then—a whisper. Not out loud. Not sound. More like… pressure behind the eyes.
Come back.
I turned, heart punching my ribs. Nothing. Just dust, air, and the weight of everything we left behind.
But something had changed.
The table shifted. The papers fluttered, moved—rearranged themselves like they were trying to be read.
The compass in my pocket buzzed. Not metaphorically. Literally. Like it was reacting.
I pulled it out.
The needle spun wildly—then slammed to a stop, not north. Down.
Jean's face drained of color. "It's below us," she whispered.
I looked down. At the floorboards. One was different—cut slightly wider than the others. Almost imperceptible.
Almost.
"There's something under the cabin," I said.
Jean nodded.
Because I didn't come this far to walk away now. Not when the ghosts were this loud. Not when I was finally remembering who I used to be—who we were.
I pried the board loose.
Beneath it?
A ladder.
Leading down into dark.
The ladder groaned as I stepped onto it, like it knew secrets it couldn't tell me yet. Jean was right behind me, quiet as a held breath—the kind of quiet that feels loaded, like a gun, or a secret, or a goodbye.
The darkness below wasn't complete. There was a faint glow at the bottom—bluish, flickering, like candlelight filtered through water. My boots hit the packed dirt floor, and the air was cooler down here. Older, too. Like it had been trapped for years, waiting for someone to let it out.
Jean dropped beside me. No words. Just a glance that said, Yeah, we're really doing this, huh?
The space wasn't big. A root cellar, maybe once. But now?
Now it was something else.
Symbols were carved into the walls. Circles. Lines. Interlocking patterns that made my stomach twist—not because I understood them, but because some part of me did. Like muscle memory in my soul.
And in the center of it all… a chest.
No, not like pirate treasure. This thing was old. Iron-bound. Wood dark as a bruise. And the second I laid eyes on it, the compass in my pocket went nuts.
The needle? Spinning like a possessed fidget spinner.
"That's it," I said, stepping toward it. "That's where it's been."
Jean didn't move.
"Kieran…" Her voice was low. Warned. Fractured. "Once we open that—"
"I need to know," I cut her off. Not out of anger. Just… need. Raw and real and clawing.
She didn't argue. Just nodded once.
I knelt. Ran my fingers over the lid. It was warm.
Why was it warm?
My hand hovered over the latch.
Then a Flash
A vision. Instant. Violent.
Five kids in the woods. Laughing. Running. Holding hands.
Then—screaming.
One disappears beneath the lake.
Me. Rowan. Jean. Felix. Jennie.
"We swore," Rowan says in my memory, soaked and shaking. "We swore if anything happened—"
"We'll fight," I whispered aloud.
Jean gasped.
I turned to her, eyes wide. "We chose to fight."
She was pale. "You weren't ready to."
My chest ached like a bruise under my ribs. "But I am. I need everything back."
I unlatched the chest.
It swung open with a hiss, like steam escaping.
Inside?
A box. Black. Smooth. Too perfect. Like it wasn't built—it was placed. Like it didn't belong to this world at all.
The moment my fingers brushed it—
Another Flash
I was in the car.
Late at night. Rain smearing across the windshield. A text from Jean on my phone—she was waiting.
There was a van behind me. Too close. Headlights cutting through the dark like blades.
I remember thinking:
Something's wrong.
And then—
The crash.
Not an accident.
A setup.
The timing, the angle, the speed—it was designed.
Metal crumpling. Glass exploding. My body thrown like paper in the wind.
Then… darkness.
Not just unconsciousness.
Something inside my mind—a tearing, ripping feeling. Like memories were being peeled off me.
Voices I didn't know:
"He can live, but he can't remember."
"Make it clean."
I wanted to scream.
But I couldn't.
I gasped like I'd surfaced from deep water.
The compass in my hand buzzed with warmth, vibrating like it had a pulse.
Jean stepped forward, hesitant, like she was afraid of what I'd say.
I looked at her—really looked at her—and the guilt in her eyes said she'd been carrying this weight longer than I could imagine.
I swallowed, chest tight.
"It was them," I said. "They made it look like an accident. But it was a hit."
Jean didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
Her face said she'd known—after the fact. When it was too late. When I was already gone—in body or in memory.
"I thought you'd never remember that," she whispered.
I stepped closer.
"I remembered everything."
All of it.
Jean's lips trembled, but she didn't cry. She never cried.
"You don't remember it all." she said.
I nodded, gripping the compass.
Its needle pointed forward.
Toward truth.
Toward Rowan.
Toward whatever comes next.