Six Weeks Later
The lake was quiet at dawn, a sheet of silver beneath a sky the color of smoke.
Elena stood barefoot on the porch, mug in hand, sweater slipping off one shoulder. Her breath ghosted in the air, mingling with the scent of pine and damp earth. Inside, she could hear Liam's soft footsteps—careful, instinctual, like he still didn't trust solid ground.
Peace wasn't what she expected it to be.
It was heavy. Fragile. Sometimes loud in the wrong places. Sometimes too quiet, like something waiting beneath the silence.
She'd imagined freedom would feel like running through open fields. But it felt more like watching the door every night before bed.
Liam came outside a moment later, shirt half-buttoned, hair damp from the shower. He looked like someone trying to live a new life without entirely letting go of the old one. Maybe that was true for both of them.
"Coffee hot?" he asked, voice still rough from sleep.
"Hot enough."
He took the cup from her and pressed it to his lips, eyes on the lake. "Miri's still out cold?"
"Yeah. She's been drawing in her sleep lately. I think it's her way of talking."
He nodded, and silence stretched again. Comfortable. But not quite safe.
"Something's off," he said suddenly.
Elena stiffened. "You feel it too?"
He didn't answer right away. Just reached for the burner phone on the railing—the one they hadn't touched in two weeks.
It was blinking.
One new message. No number.
"We were ghosts, Liam. But some of us stayed in the dark. You didn't bury all of us."
Attached: a grainy photo. Two figures. One was unmistakably him.
The other?
Cassian Voss.
Elena saw his face change. The way a man's face only changes when a grave starts whispering.
"Who is he?" she asked softly.
Liam didn't answer right away.
Because even now—after everything—they still hadn't told each other everything.