Night came wrong.
Too fast.Too quiet.
Cole made camp where the road broke down into gravel and old tire bones, a place nobody chose unless they were tired of choosing. No fire. Just the mule tied off and Dusty curled tight, head up, watching the dark like it owed him something.
The stars were thin.Faded.Like they'd been handled too much.
Cole sat with his back to a slab of concrete that used to mean shelter. He ate without tasting. Drank without relief. The Ace of Spades stayed cold against his ribs, a reminder that the House hadn't finished counting.
Rustline lay ahead.Waiting.Setting tables.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Just to rest them.
That was when he heard it.
A voice.Soft.Familiar in a way that cut instead of soothed.
"Cole?"
He didn't move.
Didn't open his eyes.
The voice wasn't behind him.Wasn't in front.
It came from memory-space. The place where sounds used to live before the House took pieces out.
His wife's voice.
Not the way she sounded when she was tired.Not the way she sounded when she was afraid.
The way she sounded when she leaned in close so the world couldn't hear.
"Cole," she said. "You're gonna let the coffee burn."
His jaw tightened.
That line wasn't random.That was a morning line.A kitchen line.A hand-on-his-arm line.
Dusty lifted his head.
Ears forward.
Listening.
That made it worse.
Cole opened his eyes.
The road was still empty.The dark still dark.
No shapes.No light.
"Don't," Cole said.
Not loud.Just firm.
The wind shifted through scrub and dead signs. Nothing answered.
For a heartbeat, he thought it was done.
Then another voice dropped into the dark.
Higher.Thinner.Bright with unfinished thoughts.
"Daddy?"
His daughter.
Saying it the way she did when she wasn't sure if he was busy or pretending to be.
Cole sucked in a breath.
Dusty stood up, tail low, nose working. Not alarmed. Not calm.
Listening.
"That's not real," Cole said.
The words tasted like dust.
His daughter's voice laughed softly. Not mocking. Just happy.
"You always say that," she said. "And then it is."
That was wrong.
She'd never said that.
Cole rose to his feet. Slow. Controlled.
He scanned the dark. No figures. No system flicker. No pressure behind the eyes.
That was worse.
"Daddy," the voice said. Closer. "You promised."
He clenched his hands.
"What did I promise," he asked.
The air cooled.
The voice didn't answer right away.
When it did, it wasn't just her voice.
It was the kitchen.
Scrape of a chair.Clink of a cup.Small domestic sounds from a life that didn't exist anymore.
"You promised you'd come back before dark," his wife said. "You said just one run."
Cole staggered a step before he caught himself.
Dusty whined.Low.Confused.
Cole pressed his thumb into his palm until pain cleared the haze.
"You're dead," he said.
Silence fell.
Then—
"No," his wife said gently. "We're right here."
The camp shifted.
Not visibly.Conceptually.
The night felt closer. The dark less empty. Like a room filling with people you couldn't see but knew were there.
Cole's chest tightened.
He didn't turn when the sound moved behind him.
"That's not how this works," he said.
A pause.
Then his daughter's voice again. Smaller, wounded.
"Why are you mad?"
That question was a blade.
Cole felt the House stir—quiet, watching, learning how he broke.
This wasn't a hazard.This was a cost echo.
Memory spent earlier.Memory still bleeding.
"Go away," he said.
His wife sighed.
That exact sigh.The one she made when he dug in his heels.
"You never listen when you're like this," she said.
Footsteps crossed the dirt.
Cole turned.
They stood ten paces away.
Not solid.Not ghosts.
Impressions shaped by longing.
His wife looked the way she had the first winter after the Collapse—hair back, sleeves rolled, eyes tired but sharp. His daughter stood beside her, bare feet dusty.
They weren't bleeding.They weren't broken.
That was the cruelty.
Dusty barked once, then stopped. He stepped toward them, tail low, nose twitching.
Cole stepped between them and the dog.
"Don't," he said.
His wife smiled softly.
"Still protecting," she said.
His daughter tilted her head.
"Why is Dusty scared?"
Dusty growled.Low.Deep.
The impressions didn't react.
Cole felt something cold slide behind his ribs.
"Say something you don't know," he said.
His wife frowned. "What?"
"Say something you couldn't know," Cole said. "Prove it."
They exchanged a look.
His daughter spoke.
"You still keep the bent button in your pocket," she said. "Even though it pokes your leg."
Cole's breath hitched.
That wasn't public.That wasn't memory he shared.
His wife stepped closer.
"And you still think if you'd taken the south road that day, this wouldn't have happened," she said.
Pressure surged behind his eyes.
System text flickered.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // MEMORY FEEDBACKSTATUS: UNCONTROLLEDWARNING: PROLONGED EXPOSURE
Cole drew the revolver.
Didn't aim at them.
Held it low, visible.
"If you're real," he said, "you know I can't stay."
His daughter stepped forward.
Her feet left no prints.
"But you never stay anyway," she said.
Cole fired.
The shot tore through the night like a cracked bell.
The impressions broke. Not into smoke. Not into blood.
Into absence.Into nothing.
Dusty barked hard, spinning, hackles raised.
Silence slammed back into place.
Cole stood breathing like he'd run miles. The gun smoked in his hand. The system text faded. The House did not comment.
He holstered the revolver and sank against the concrete, sliding down until he sat in the dirt like a man emptied out.
Dusty pressed into him, warm and real.
Cole rested his head against the dog.
"Don't let me believe that again," he said.
Dusty licked his cheek once.
Cole didn't sleep.Didn't speak.
He watched the dark until dawn thinned it.
Rustline waited.
And the House had learned how to hurt him without using cards at all.