I saw Ivy last night.
She was wearing that red hoodie.
The one we found hanging from a branch the night she disappeared.
The one they buried with her.
They say time softens trauma. That the edges of memory round out, grow dull, and harmless.
That's a lie.
It's been 364 days since Ivy Monroe vanished from Black Pine Forest. A whole year since we walked out of those woods without her. Since we said the same thing to the police, the teachers, our parents:
"We don't know what happened."
I've said it so many times I can almost believe it.
Almost.
But then I wake up at 2:47 AM, heart hammering, mouth dry, Ivy's name caught in my throat.
And I know.
Time hasn't dulled anything.
I sit up in bed, still half in the dream, still hearing her voice.
"Lena..."
Not a scream. Not a whisper. A broken sound, like a girl trying to breathe through dirt.
There's a knock on my bedroom window.
One.
Two.
Three.
I freeze.
Our house is two stories up. No trees near my window. No ledge.
But I hear it again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I drag myself out of bed and cross the room. My hands are shaking, but I unlock the latch and lift the glass anyway.
No one's there.
Just fog.
And a smear of red across the glass.
Lipstick. Or blood.
At school, everything looks the same. That's the worst part.
The walls are still covered in dumb posters. People still laugh in the hallways like we didn't lose someone. Like Ivy wasn't real.
Riley's leaning against the lockers like always, dark eyeliner smudged like she didn't sleep. Cami walks past her, clutching her books like they might protect her. Neither of them looks at me.
We don't talk anymore. Not since the police stopped asking questions. Not since we made that promise.
No one talks about Ivy. Not in class, not at lunch, not even in whispers. She's like a ghost no one wants to say out loud.
But now I'm not so sure she's a ghost.
After second period, I open my locker.
Something falls out.
A note. Folded, perfect. My name on the front, written in Ivy's handwriting.
I open it with numb fingers.
"I remember what you did,
Do you?"
That night, I check Ivy's Instagram.
It hasn't been touched in a year. The last photo is still there — all four of us at the lake. Ivy, Riley, Cami, me. Her caption said:
"Girls like us don't break. 💋"
We broke.
But the photo has a new like.
A new comment.
From her account.
"see you soon 💋"
I throw my phone across the room.
My breathing's too loud. My chest tight.
The screen goes black. Then flickers on again, on its own.
Ivy's face.
Up close.
Smiling.
But her eyes are scratched out.
I stare at the screen like it might change.
I should tell someone. Riley. Cami. The police.
But who would believe me?
We swore to take the truth to our graves.
And now I think Ivy's ready to dig them up.