The days blur together, bleeding into each other like watercolors left in the rain. I don't sleep. I don't eat. There's no point. Every bite I tried to force down turned to ash in my mouth. The only thing that keeps me upright is the tea. The mugs sit in a neat row on the counter, their contents dark and swirling. I don't remember making them, but they're always there, waiting. I drink without thinking, the bitterness biting at my tongue as I gulp it down. It burns all the way to my stomach, a fleeting warmth that fades too quickly. I pace the cabin endlessly, the hammer dangling from my hand, its weight as familiar now as my own limbs. The whispers are always there, just at the edges of my hearing, tugging me toward them like a string tied around my ribs. At first, I tried to ignore them, pressing my hands to my ears and screaming into the silence. It didn't help. They wormed their way inside anyway, digging deeper until I couldn't tell where they ended and I began. Now, I follow them. The first hole I made was in the living room. The whispers pooled there, gathering behind the wall like trapped water. I couldn't stop myself. The hammer rose and fell in a frenzy, the wood splintering under each blow. My arms ached, my hands blistering, but I didn't stop until the hole was big enough to reach through. There was nothing inside. Just emptiness. Darkness. The whispers laughed at me then, sharp and mocking, curling around my thoughts like smoke. But I couldn't stop. The next hole was in the hallway, then the bedroom, then the kitchen. Each time, the whispers grew louder, taunting me, guiding me. I ripped the cabin apart piece by piece, my body moving on autopilot as the hammer swung again and again. The walls bleed dust and splinters now, the once-cozy space unrecognizable. Light filters through the jagged holes during the day, casting fractured shadows that stretch and twist across the floor. At night, the shadows move. I see them in the corners of my vision, darting just out of reach. They don't follow the light; they follow me. Watching. Waiting. I try not to look at them, but I can feel their eyes—empty, hollow, boring into me. The hammer is always in my hand now, the calluses on my palms a permanent reminder of how often I use it. The cabin feels smaller, the air heavier, pressing down on me like a hand on my throat. The whispers thrum in my skull, louder and more insistent with each passing hour. Adam They call to me, coaxing me, pulling me toward the next wall. I stumble forward, the hammer dragging at my side. "Just a little further," they whisper, their voices overlapping, crashing into each other like waves. I reach the corner of the room, my eyes locking onto the faded wallpaper. The whispers are strongest here, vibrating through the wood like a living thing. My hands tremble as I raise the hammer, the muscles in my arms screaming in protest. "Come on," they urge, their tone almost gentle now. I bring the hammer down. The sound reverberates through the cabin, sharp and jarring, but it doesn't feel out of place. It feels like part of the rhythm, the heartbeat of this house. The wood gives way after a few strikes, the jagged edges splitting apart to reveal the void beyond. My breath catches in my throat as I peer into the hole, the darkness inside impossibly deep. For a moment, the whispers fall silent. And then something moves. I freeze, the hammer slipping from my grip and clattering to the floor. My breath hitches as I stare into the darkness beyond the splintered wood. The void is alive, writhing, shifting, though I can't see what's moving. The whispers hold their breath with me. And then— Knock. Knock. The sound sends a jolt through my chest, breaking the spell. My head snaps up, my eyes darting toward the door. The knock comes again, louder this time, cutting through the heavy silence of the cabin. "Adam? You in there?" The voice is muffled, but it's unmistakable. Joel. I stagger to my feet, my knees weak beneath me. Joel can't be here. He shouldn't be here. The whispers rise again, low and insistent. "Don't trust him," they hiss, curling around my thoughts like smoke. Knock. "Adam!" Joel's voice is sharper now, tinged with concern. "It's me. Open the door." I take a step toward the front door, then stop. My barricade looms ahead, the planks nailed tightly across the frame. No one's getting in. I stumble toward the window instead, my hands shaking as I pull back the curtain. Joel stands on the porch, his figure blurred by the dusty glass, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he looks toward the door. "Joel," I say, my voice cracking. He turns to the sound, his face breaking into a mixture of relief and exasperation. "There you are!" he says. "I've been knocking forever. What's going on in there?" The whispers twist in my head, their voices overlapping in a frantic, urgent chorus. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my palms against my temples as if I can block them out. "Adam?" Joel's voice cuts through the noise. "Are you okay?" I force my eyes open, my gaze locking on his face through the glass. "I'm fine," I say, the words brittle and hollow. Joel frowns. "Yeah, you sound fine." He steps closer to the window, his breath fogging the glass. "You look like hell, man. When's the last time you ate something?" "I don't need to eat," I snap, the sharpness in my tone surprising even me. Joel leans forward, squinting through the glass. His eyes drift past me, to the chaos behind me—the splintered walls, the scattered books, the overturned furniture. His jaw tightens. "What the fuck happened in there?" "It's nothing." My voice is shaky, my hands trembling as I grip the edge of the windowsill. "I'm... working on something." "Working on what? Demolishing your house?" He glances at the boarded-up door, his frown deepening. "Why is your door nailed shut, Adam?" The whispers surge, louder now, desperate and shrill. I step back from the window, shaking my head. "I can't let you in, Joel." His eyes widen slightly, then narrow. "What are you talking about? Let me in, Adam. You're scaring the hell out of me." "I can't!" The words burst out of me, raw and frantic. I run a hand through my hair, pacing in front of the window as the whispers coil tighter around my mind. "You don't understand. You're not supposed to be here!" Joel slams a hand against the window, making me jump. "Jesus Christ, Adam, listen to yourself! You're not making any sense. Let me in before you hurt yourself—or someone else." The whispers laugh now, cold and mocking. Someone else. I clutch my head, the words slicing through me like shards of glass. "You need to leave, Joel. Go home." "I'm not leaving you like this," he says firmly, his voice steady despite the rising tension. "You're not well. Look at yourself. Just open the door, okay? Let me help you." My chest tightens as I stare at him, his face pale and drawn in the glistening light. For a moment, doubt creeps in, unraveling the edges of my conviction. But the whispers don't let go. "Adam," Joel says softly, his tone shifting. "Please." I grip the hammer again, the weight of it grounding me. I tighten my hold, my breaths coming faster. "You're not real," I whisper, more to myself than to him. Joel's face hardens. "Don't do this," he says, his voice sharp with warning. "Adam, just let me in. We'll figure this out together." The whispers rise to a fever pitch, screaming now, relentless and deafening. My vision blurs, the room spinning as the walls close in around me. My grip on the hammer tightens, and I take a step toward the door. Joel leans closer to the window, his face filling the smudged glass. "Listen, I know things haven't been easy since… well, since Lily. But you don't have to deal with this alone. Let me help you, Adam." The hammer feels heavier in my hand. The words hung in the air between us, sharp and intrusive, as though they've torn through some fragile veil I didn't realize was there. "What are you talking about?" I say, my voice brittle. "Things are fine. We're fine." Joel's expression flickers—grief, maybe, or pity. It twists something deep inside me, sharp and unbearable. "Adam, come on." His tone softens, but his words dig deeper. "You don't have to pretend. Not with me. I know how much you loved her. Hell, I loved her too. But this… whatever's going on here… it's not what she would've wanted for you." "Don't." The word escapes me like a hiss, low and sharp, and my hand tightens around the hammer. Joel frowns, his forehead pressing against the glass. "Don't what? Tell you the truth? Adam, you're my brother. I'm not going to just stand here and watch you fall apart." "I'm not falling apart." The words come fast, defensive. Too defensive. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You called me, remember? Left me that voicemail about how you couldn't stop thinking about her. You said, 'It's happening again.' Do you even remember leaving that message?" The world tilts slightly beneath me. His words buzz in my ears, but they don't make sense. The memory is gone, swallowed up by the haze that's been creeping through my mind for days—or has it been weeks? "I don't know what you're talking about," I say, shaking my head. Joel's hand tightens into a fist, resting against the window frame. His voice softens, a mix of exasperation and concern. "Adam, it's been three years. Three years since Lily…" He stops himself, glancing toward the barricaded door. "You have to stop doing this to yourself. Please." The whispers stir again, faint and insistent, like a draft snaking through the cracks in the cabin. "He doesn't understand," they murmur. "She's still here," I say, barely more than a whisper. Joel's expression hardens. "Adam…" "She's still here!" I shout, slamming the hammer against the wall. The sharp crack echoes through the room, and Joel flinches. The whispers swell in approval, curling around me like smoke. Joel straightens, his jaw tightening. "Adam, listen to me. I know how much it hurts. I know. But you can't keep doing this—" "I'm not doing anything!" I cut him off, my voice trembling. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't see it. She's here, Joel. She's here." Joel steps back from the window, his face pale. He glances toward his truck, then back at me. "I'm not leaving you like this. Either you let me in, or I'm coming back with someone who can help." "No one else is coming here," I say, my voice dropping to a low growl. His eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think I see something flicker in his expression—fear, maybe, or recognition. He steps back from the window, holding his hands up in a calming gesture. "All right," he says slowly, his voice steady but distant. "I'll back off. For now." He lingers, his gaze heavy with worry and something else—something that makes my chest tighten. He finally turns and walks toward his truck. I watch him through the window, every step pounding in my chest like a countdown. He reaches the truck and opens the door, sliding into the driver's seat. He doesn't leave. Instead, he sits there, pulling out his phone. He glances up at the cabin, the faint glow of his screen lighting his face as he scrolls or types something. What is he doing? The engine doesn't start. He doesn't drive away. He's waiting. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else. The whispers swirl around me, sharper now, like blades slicing through my thoughts. He's watching. He doesn't trust you. Don't let him interfere. I press my forehead to the window, staring out at him as he shifts in his seat, his phone lighting the cab of the truck. The whispers grow louder, their insistence thrumming like a heartbeat. I step back, letting the curtain fall closed. My legs feel unsteady as I lower myself onto the couch, the hammer still clutched in my hand. Joel doesn't understand. He doesn't see what I see. Lily is here. I know she is. And I won't let anyone take her away from me. Joel's words echo in my mind long after I've left the window. Three years. The number sticks, jagged and unwelcome, in the space where her laugh should be. It's not true. It can't be true. Three years? Since Lily? No. I sink further into the couch, my head in my hands. My thoughts spiral, looping over themselves, tangled in static and half-formed memories. Three years is impossible. I was just with her. She was here, laughing, teasing me about the crooked shelves. Her voice still lingers in the air, soft and comforting, wrapping around me like a favorite blanket. Wasn't she? The whispers murmur softly, their voices curling through my thoughts like tendrils of smoke. I cling to their words, to the certainty they bring, even as Joel's voice cuts through the haze. Three years. A wave of something surfaces—faint, fleeting. A hospital room. White sheets. The smell of antiseptic, sharp and sterile. Machines beeping, their rhythmic pulse pressing into my skull. I slam my fists into my thighs, hard enough to jolt myself back to the present. The memory slips away like water through my fingers, leaving only fragments behind. The whispers grow louder, insistent, drowning out the fragments. She's here. You know she's here. Don't let him confuse you. I nod to myself, gripping the edge of the couch until my knuckles turn white. Joel doesn't understand. He doesn't see what I see. I get up and walk to the window again, peering out through the gap in the curtain. Joel's truck is still there. He's still there, illuminated by the dim light of his phone. He shifts in his seat, looking up toward the cabin for a moment before going back to his phone. He's not leaving. The forest looms behind him, dark and still, its shadows stretching toward the cabin like greedy fingers. Three years. The thought scratches at the back of my mind, refusing to let go. If it's true—if it's really been that long—why can't I remember? Why does it feel like she was just here? I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. Her laugh comes to me, bright and musical, carried on the edges of my fraying mind. It's so vivid I can almost hear it in the room with me. She's here. Joel doesn't understand. Joel wasn't here. But I am. And I'll find her.