I bumped into the woman who'd told me she wanted to introduce me to her daughter.
She was perched on one of the lounge worn-out couches, mid-laugh, chatting with a man that definitely wasn't Father John. I gave her a polite nod, but didn't slow down. I swept past them without a word and made my way down the corridor toward my apartment, steps quick, breath uneven.
Inside, I barely had the door shut before I started scanning the place. My eyes darted from corner to corner, wild and desperate. There had to be something. A note. A box. A stupid balloon with SURPRISE written in glitter.
Nothing.
No confetti.
No gifts.
No hidden guests or mystery clues or half-melted cakes.
"Okay…" I muttered, stepping into the kitchen and yanking open the fridge, as if someone might be hiding inside.
I checked the pantry, the bathroom, under the bed. Ripped open the closet. Pushed aside my shoes.
Still nothing.
"What the hell?"
I stood in the center of the living room, pulse slowing, hands limp by my sides. Maybe they were pulling my leg. Maybe it was some elaborate prank. Or worse, a scam. An error text. One of those "meant for someone else" things that got blown out of proportion.
Then—
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Footsteps pounded above me, hard enough to rattle the ceiling light. My heart paused, tilted. Then it hit me.
204.
The surprise wasn't in my apartment.
It was above it.
I bolted out of the door, the chill in the corridor brushing against my skin immediately. My legs moved before my brain caught up, taking the stairs two at a time, fingers grazing the railing, breath shallow in my throat.
When I got to the second floor, I stopped.
It wasn't empty.
The hallway was never not empty.
But now—
Four pairs of eyes turned toward me.
Three stood near the second-to-last apartment, mid-conversation, their chat falling silent as they stared. The fourth was crouched in front of his own door, hammering a rusted hinge back in place with sharp, metallic bangs. He gave me a brief stare and went back to his hammering.
I swallowed.
Something about the air felt off.
I forced myself to walk forward.
No one said anything as I passed. No questions. No suspicious glances. They just… resumed whatever they were doing like I belonged here. Like I wasn't about to walk into someone else home uninvited.
My fingers wrapped around the doorknob of 204.
It twisted easily under my palm.
I stepped inside.
Darkness.
The door closed softly behind me.
No TV static this time. No dull hum of life. Just a heavy, suffocating black that swallowed the room whole.
I stood still for a second. Let the silence crawl down my spine. Then the scent hit me—soft, sweet, and dangerous.
Iceberg rose and honey.
It was beautiful and haunting at the same time, like perfume sprayed right before a funeral. I found myself leaning into it, breathing it in deeper.
Snap out of it, Sinclair.
I reached into my pocket and flicked on my phone's flashlight.
The thin beam cut across the darkness, painting silver stripes on the dusty floorboards.
Then I saw it.
A projector. Small. Square. Pointing at the only bare wall in the room. But it was off. Quiet. Like it was waiting.
My hand hovered for a second.
Then—click.
The projector whirred softly.
And the wall came to life.
I blinked.
Then froze.
I appeared in the video.
Not in a cave this time, but a dim hallway, shadowy and tight, like the air itself was holding its breath. I was resting against the wall, looking behind me like I was being chased—like something was right on my heels, just out of frame.
I squinted at the projection. The camera zoomed in.
There I was.
Grinning.
No—smiling. Brightly. Brighter than I had in years. Maybe brighter than I ever had. My dimples were deep and clean-cut, sharp against my cheeks like they'd been etched in. The kind of smile you give when you're trying to convince someone you're okay. Or maybe trying to convince yourself.
And then I spoke.
"Escaping Adventure. Day 2. Featuring Darren, Sinclair, and Ra—"
Cut.
The video glitched, stuttered, and restarted. Played again. And again. Each time, cutting off before I could say the full name. "Ra—" was all that ever came out.
It was like the projector was teasing me, taunting me with a puzzle I used to know the answer to. Like it was dangling a memory just out of reach.
I took a step forward, glaring at the frozen smile of my past self on the wall.
Ra… Ra what? Raymond? Rachel? Rayne? Rain?
Who the fuck were they?
Who the fuck were they, and why did they know me well enough to be on a first-name basis?
My jaw tightened. I clenched my fists and took another step closer to the projection. The video played again. My voice rang through the room again.
"Escaping Adventure. Day 2. Featuring Darren, Sinclair, and Ra—"
Cut.
I snapped.
"Who the fuck are you?!" I screamed, the sound ricocheting off the walls. My voice cracked at the end, raw from tension. I didn't care if those weirdos I passed in the hallway heard me. Hell, I wanted them to hear. Maybe they'd have the decency to answer.
But of course, nothing.
Just that damn video on loop. My too-bright smile. My too-happy voice. My unfinished sentence.
I turned around, slumped onto the mattress in the center of the room. It creaked a little beneath me but didn't protest. It was… soft. Weirdly soft, like clouds had been stuffed inside it. Definitely not what I was expecting in an apartment that looked like a murder confession waiting to happen.
My hand swept over the sheets, mindlessly at first, then slower. The fabric was cool, smooth.
And the pillow—
Honey.
My fingers closed around it before I realized what I was doing. I lifted it to my face and inhaled. God.
It was sweet. Warm. Like childhood. Like memories I didn't remember having. A scent so familiar it ached in the back of my throat. I pressed my face deeper into it, something inside me cracking open just a little.
Then I caught myself.
"What the actual hell," I muttered, tossing the pillow halfway across the room like it had personally betrayed me.
I stood, brushing my palms on my jeans, and without a backward glance, I stepped out of the apartment. The projector kept playing, undisturbed by my absence. My too-bright smile flashed on the wall behind me.
Back in the hallway, I made my way downstairs.
That's when I saw him.
Father John.
The priest turned to me, as if he'd been waiting. His eyes found mine immediately. Calm. Calculating. Almost… expectant.
I didn't break stride.
"If this is about trying to get me to move out," I said, cool and easy, "that would be a breach of contract. And even if it wasn't—I'm not going anywhere."
His face didn't change. Not a twitch.
I gave him a mock-salute as I passed. "Have a holy day, Father."
Then I walked back into my apartment, shutting the door behind me harder than I needed to.
The silence wrapped around me again, familiar now. Like a second skin.
Then my phone rang.
I pulled it out of my jacket. The screen glowed: Freda.
Shit.
I took a breath. Steadied myself. Swiped to answer.
"Sinclair," she said immediately, voice taut with urgency, "I found something."
That woke me up.
"I'm listening," I said, already pacing.
"I ran into Timothy."
My eyebrows lifted. "From Blossom?"
"Yes. He remembered you. And Darren too. He said there were some group pictures taken before he got adopted. And get this—he still had them."
My pace stopped. "He what?"
"He sent them to me. I'm forwarding them now."
My phone vibrated again. A ping. Then another. Three photos.
I opened the first.
There we were.
A banner reading BLOSSOM HOME ORPHANAGE hung in the background. I was fifteen. Darren, thirteen. He stood at my right. Some chubby kid with a lopsided smile stood at my left. We weren't smiling.
None of us were, actually. Not like in the video. My eyes looked tired, even in the photo. Haunted. Like I knew too much too young.
I zoomed in, scanning faces.
Searching.
And then I saw her.
Fucking hell?
"Saavni."
She was in the background, almost obscured by a taller boy. Her hair was a tangled mess, strands sticking out like she hadn't brushed it in days. A dark bruise bloomed under her left eye. Her glare was unmistakable—directed straight at someone off to her left.
I followed her gaze.
Darren.
She was staring at Darren.
My skin chilled. I looked again. In the second photo—same thing. Only this time, her face was softer. Almost… admiring?
By the third, the admiration was gone. Pure anger again.
Every time, her eyes followed Darren like a tether.
"What the actual fuck is going on?" I whispered to myself.
I backed out of the photo app, heart picking up pace, and hit the call log. Tapped Freda's name.
She picked up on the third ring.
"Sin—"
"Do you know anyone named Saavni?" I cut her off.
A pause.
Then, "No," she said, confusion lacing her voice. "Should I?"
I stared at the last photo again, thumb frozen over the screen.
"No," I said slowly. "Maybe not."
But inside, my instincts were screaming.