The road blurred beneath us—WHRRRR—trees flashing past like witnesses who refused to remember. My hands were locked together in my lap so tightly my fingers ached.
Neither of us spoke.
The rain eased into a fine mist—sshhh—but the silence inside the car felt heavier than the storm ever had.
"They know where you grew up," Serafin said finally.
"Yes," I replied. My voice sounded far away, like it didn't belong to me. "They know where I ran from. They know what I still care about."
"That photo could be old," he offered.
"No," I said immediately. "The porch light was broken when I left. It was fixed."
Serafin cursed under his breath. "Then we don't stop."
"We can't just keep driving forever."
"No," he agreed. "But we don't go anywhere predictable."
The gas light blinked on—ding—a small, almost mocking sound.
I laughed weakly. "Of course."
Serafin exhaled. "We need fuel."
A lone gas station appeared ahead, half-hidden by trees. Two pumps. One car. No sign of life inside except a flickering fluorescent light—fzzzt.
"This feels like a bad idea," I muttered.
"Everything feels like a bad idea right now," Serafin replied, slowing—hiss—as we pulled in.
The car rolled to a stop—crunch—gravel shifting under the tires.
"Stay here," he said.
"No," I replied instantly. "I'm not being alone anymore."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. Stay close."
The air smelled like oil and damp leaves. Somewhere nearby, a bird screeched—SKREE—sharp and sudden.
We walked toward the pump. The station door creaked open—creeeeeak—and a man stepped out. Late twenties, tired eyes, hoodie pulled tight.
"Morning," he said cautiously.
"Morning," Serafin replied. "Pump work?"
"Yeah," the attendant said, glancing at me. "Cash or card?"
"Card," Serafin said.
As he filled the tank—chug-chug—I felt it again.
That prickle at the back of my neck.
Someone was watching.
My phone vibrated—bzzzzt—hard enough that I almost dropped it.
Unknown Caller.
I didn't answer.
Another buzz.
Then a text.
You were supposed to go home.
My jaw clenched. "They're pissed."
Serafin looked at the screen. "Good."
Another message appeared immediately.
He won't last long if you keep this up.
I swallowed. "They're escalating."
The attendant glanced over. "Everything okay?"
"Yes," I said too quickly. "Just—bad service."
He nodded slowly, not convinced.
Serafin finished fueling and replaced the nozzle—clunk—then leaned in close. "We don't react. That's what they want."
My phone rang again—RING… RING—loud, insistent.
I answered. "Stop threatening people."
The voice came through distorted again, layered—like more than one person speaking at once. "Stop forcing us to respond."
"You're the ones hurting people," I said.
"You hurt them first," the voice replied. "By remembering."
Rage surged hot and sharp. "You don't get to blame me for your crimes."
A pause. Then: "We warned you."
The call ended—click.
The attendant cleared his throat. "You folks should probably move along."
Serafin nodded. "Thanks."
As we got back into the car—THUD—the attendant lingered, watching us pull away—VROOOOM—his gaze following longer than necessary.
"They're tightening the net," I said quietly.
"Yes," Serafin replied. "Which means we're close to something they can't afford exposed."
"What if I'm wrong?" I asked suddenly. "What if I destroy lives for nothing?"
Serafin didn't hesitate. "You didn't imagine what happened."
"That doesn't mean the truth won't hurt innocent people."
"It already has," he said. "The difference is now it's hurting the right ones."
The road narrowed again, trees pressing in, sunlight breaking through in harsh patches—thump-thump—as tires rolled over uneven pavement.
My phone buzzed—bzzzzt—this time a video.
I opened it before I could stop myself.
A shaky clip. Someone filming from inside a car.
My childhood home again.
A shadow moved behind the curtain.
I gasped. "They're there."
Serafin's hands tightened on the wheel. "We don't go back."
"I know," I whispered. "But they want me to."
Another message followed.
Say nothing. This ends.
I stared at the words, heart pounding. "They're offering a deal."
Serafin shook his head. "It's a lie."
"I know," I said. "But it's tempting."
Silence fell between us, thick and strained.
Finally, he said, "If you stop now, you'll always wonder who else they hurt in your place."
I closed my eyes. "Fuck."
The car slowed—hiss—as we reached a turnout overlooking a wide valley. Serafin pulled over and shut off the engine—tick… tick… tick—the sound unnervingly loud.
"We need a plan," he said.
"I know," I replied. "And I think they expect me to disappear."
Serafin frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning I don't," I said. "Not yet."
My phone buzzed again—bzzzzt—but this time it wasn't a threat.
It was a name.
Someone I hadn't seen since I left.
My breath caught. "They found someone from my past."
Serafin leaned closer. "What do they want?"
I opened the message.
We need to talk. I know what you forgot.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
"I didn't forget," I whispered.
The valley stretched endlessly below us, quiet and indifferent.
Serafin watched my face carefully. "What is it?"
I swallowed hard. "Proof."
The wind picked up—WHOOSH—rocking the car slightly.
And for the first time since I spoke the truth, I realized the most dangerous part wasn't what I remembered—
It was what I didn't.