The basement is suffocating. The air feels thick, every breath like I'm trying to swallow ash. I pace back and forth the whispers rising and falling in chaotic waves. I try to ignore them, but they crawl under my skin, scratching at the walls of my mind. My free hand presses against my chest, as if I can physically hold myself together. Joel groans against the ropes, shifting slightly, his voice cracking through the noise. "Adam…" I don't respond. My eyes catch on the heirloom box again, sitting there on the floor. I don't remember bringing it down to the basement, but it's here. The carved wood glints faintly in the dim light, its surface worn smooth from years of handling. I set the hammer down with a thud, my trembling hands reaching for the box. The moment my fingers touch it, something in me tightens. The whispers go quieter, like they're holding their breath, waiting to see what I'll do. "Adam," Joel says, his voice suddenly sharper, more focused. "Why do you have that?" I don't answer. I slide my hands along the edges of the box, my fingers brushing over the carvings, the familiar patterns. The lid feels heavier than it should, like it doesn't want to open again. I can still remember the soft cloth inside—the way it smelled faintly of lavender. Of her. "Adam." Joel's voice cuts through the stillness. "You've been holding onto that box since I got here. You don't even realize it, do you?" I look at him, confused. "What are you talking about?" "That box," Joel says, pulling against the ropes, his voice strained. "It's Lily's. It's her memorial box. You put it together. After… after she died." The words hit me like a gut punch. I pull the box closer to me, my arms wrapping around it like a shield. "No. That's not true." Joel shakes his head, his eyes locked onto me. "Yes, it is. You know it is. You've been sitting here staring at it, obsessing over it because you're trying to make sense of something that isn't there. Open it, Adam." I shake my head violently, clutching the box tighter. "It's not a memorial box! You don't know what you're talking about!" "Then prove me wrong," Joel says, his voice rising with frustration. "Open it. Look inside. If I'm lying, then you'll see." The whispers hiss and churn at the edges of my mind. Don't listen to him. He's lying. I glare at Joel, the hammer calling to me again. "Why are you doing this to me?" I whisper. "I'm trying to help you," Joel pleads. "Adam, if you don't face this—if you don't let her go—it's only going to get worse. You know it." I look down at the box again. My chest feels like it's about to cave in, the weight of his words pressing into me. My hands tremble as I unlatch the lid, the sound sharp and final in the quiet basement. The lid creaks open. Inside, the scent of lavender hits me first—faint and familiar, like it's been waiting for me. I reach in, my fingers brushing over the soft cloth again. My throat tightens. And then I see it. A folded newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. My stomach churns as I pull it out, the paper rustling in my shaking hands: Lily Whitlock, 32, passed away after a prolonged battle with Mixed Connective Tissue Disease (MCTD), a rare and devastating autoimmune condition that attacked her joints, muscles, and vital organs. Yet through it all, Lily's spirit remained unshaken, her humor and tenderness shining even in her final months. She is survived by her husband, Adam Whitlock. Both of her parents preceded her in death. The words blur. My breath catches, my vision swimming as I read them again. Passed away. "No," I whisper, my voice breaking. I read it again, forcing my eyes to focus on the letters, but the meaning won't sink in. It can't. "No, that's not right." "Adam…" Joel's voice is quiet, pleading. "It's real. You've been holding onto this because you don't want to accept it. But you have to accept it." I clutch the obituary, the paper crumpling in my fists. "It's lying," I choke out, tears spilling down my face. "This isn't true. She's not—she can't be—" "You buried her, Adam," Joel says, his voice breaking. "I was there. You and me. We said goodbye." I slam the box shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Shut up!" I scream, my voice splintering. The whispers surge in my head, twisting around Joel's words, their tones sharper, crueler. Joel's voice breaks through the chaos, desperate now. "Adam, listen to me! You've been sick before. You stopped taking your meds—that's why this is happening again. You need to take them, or it's only going to get worse!" I stare at him, my breaths ragged and uneven. "What… what meds?" Joel's face twists with something between pity and fear. "Your whole life, Adam. You've always needed them. You don't remember because you don't want to remember." "No." I shake my head, stumbling back as the words burrow into me. "You're lying. I don't need anything. I don't need meds. I don't—" The whispers shriek now, louder than Joel, louder than my own thoughts. I drop the obituary, my hands clutching at my head as I stagger back against the wall. "Shut up!" I scream, my voice raw and broken. "Just shut up!" "Adam, please!" Joel shouts, straining against the ropes. "It's not too late. You can still get help. You don't have to let this destroy you!" His voice crashes into me, but the whispers scream over him, relentless. The edges of my vision blur. I can't breathe. The obituary lies crumpled on the floor, mocking me. "She's not dead," I whisper, over and over, rocking back and forth against the cold wall. My tears mix with the sweat running down my face. "She's not dead. She's not dead!" Joel's voice fades, the sound of his desperate pleas swallowed by the storm in my mind. The whispers wrap around me like a shroud, their voices victorious. I squeeze my eyes shut, my breaths coming in ragged bursts. Somewhere deep inside me, a tiny crack begins to spread, but I shove it down. I won't listen to Joel. I can't. She's not gone. She can't be. The whispers thrum in my ears, a low, incessant hum, but Joel's voice cuts through—faint, steady, desperate. "Adam… this happens every time you come here." I freeze, my back still pressed to the wall, my chest heaving. I shake my head slowly, my hands trembling at my sides. "What are you talking about?" Joel pulls against the ropes, his face twisted in frustration. "You always come back to the cabin. Every time you stop taking your meds, you end up here. And every time, it gets worse." "No," I mutter, barely above a whisper. My pulse pounds in my temples, so loud it drowns everything else out. "That's not true. You're lying." Joel doesn't stop. His voice rises, louder and sharper now, crashing into me like a wave. "Think, Adam! You know it's true. You get sick, and you come here—like this place is some kind of sick magnet for your grief." "Stop," I mutter again, pressing my hands to my ears, trying to shut him out. The whispers swirl harder, fighting for space in my mind. "You get worse every single time," Joel says, his voice cracking, raw with emotion. "And it's killing you. It's killing us, Adam. You shut everyone out. You scare the hell out of me." I shake my head violently, sliding down the wall until I'm crouched on the floor. My vision blurs, Joel's words twisting in my mind, twisting like knives. "No… no, you don't understand," I whisper. "This place—it's connected to her. I see her here. I hear her here. She's not dead." Joel's voice softens, but it's edged with a grief I don't want to hear. "Adam, listen to me. That's not Lily. It's your mind. It's your illness. The cabin is feeding it, making it worse." I jerk my head up, glaring at him through tear-streaked eyes. "I'm not sick." "You are sick!" Joel shouts, his voice breaking. "You've been sick. That's why you need your meds. That's why you need help!" The word slams into me like a hammer, reverberating in my skull. Help. The whispers shriek again, furious and wild. Joel's voice lowers again, trembling with exhaustion. "Adam… you stopped taking your meds, didn't you? That's why this is happening again. It's the same pattern. The same spiral." I squeeze my eyes shut, rocking slightly as I clutch at the sides of my head. "Stop. Stop it." "I remember the last time," Joel says, his voice steady now, heavy with pain. "You stopped taking them. You said you were fine. You told me you didn't need them anymore, and then you came here. You stayed for days—locked yourself in this cabin, chasing her ghost." I press my hands harder against my skull, my teeth clenched. "You're lying. Shut up, Joel." He doesn't stop. "You wouldn't answer the phone. I had to break down the door to get to you. Do you remember that? Do you remember what I found?" "No!" I scream, my voice shattering in the small space. "You're lying!" Joel flinches but keeps pushing. "You were sitting in the dark, Adam. Alone. Talking to no one. I found you holding that damn box—this same box—muttering about how she wasn't really gone. You didn't even recognize me." My breath catches in my throat, tears spilling again, hot and unrelenting. I want him to stop. I want the words to stop. "You nearly died that time," Joel says softly. "You don't remember that either, do you?" I look up at him, my vision swimming. His face is lined with grief and exhaustion. I hate him for it. I hate him for saying these things, for trying to take her away from me. "You need help," he says, pleading now. "If you don't take your meds, it's going to happen again. And next time, Adam… next time you might not come back." I shake my head, trembling all over. "I'm not sick. I don't need meds." Joel's eyes glisten in the faint light, his voice breaking. "You've always needed them, Adam. Your whole life. This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last unless you do something. Please. Don't let this destroy you." The whispers roar, furious and chaotic now, fighting to drown him out. I clutch the hammer again, the cold metal biting into my palm. The basement walls seem to close in, the shadows stretching like claws. Joel's words, the whispers—they all blur together, a cacophony of truth and lies that I can't untangle. "She's not gone," I whisper, the words trembling as I speak them. "She's still here." Joel shakes his head, his voice soft, almost broken. "She's not here, Adam. She's not here." The words hang in the air, fragile and final. For a moment, there's silence—real silence, the kind I haven't heard in days. It presses down on me like a weight. And then Joel's shoulders start to shake. His face crumples, his breath hitching as tears spill over, streaking down the dried blood on his cheeks. "Goddammit, Adam," he chokes, his voice breaking. "She's gone. She's gone, and you can't keep doing this. You can't keep doing this to yourself." He drops his head against the beam, his tears falling steadily now, dripping onto the cold floor below him. "I miss her too, man," he whispers, his voice raw, shaking. "I miss her every single day. But this? This isn't how we keep her alive. This isn't how we remember her." The sight of him—Joel, my brother, breaking apart like this—makes something inside me twist painfully. He looks so small, so defeated. His sobs are quiet, almost swallowed by the shadows of the basement, but I can hear them. I can feel them. And still, the whispers snake through the silence, curling around my thoughts like smoke. I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands trembling, my teeth clenched so hard it hurts. "Stop it," I mutter, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to Joel or the voices in my head. Joel's cries soften, but his words carry on, broken and tear-streaked. "You don't have to live like this, Adam. Please. Just… just come back to me." The hammer feels heavier in my grip now. The box sits nearby, its truth still mocking me. Joel's sobs, the whispers, the truth I don't want to face—it all swirls together, pulling me deeper into the dark. I can't look at him. I can't listen to him. "She's waiting for me," I whisper to myself, my voice barely audible. "She's still here." Joel lifts his head, his bloodshot eyes meeting mine. "Adam," he says softly, his tears still streaming. "She's not here." But I don't believe him. I can't.