Dealing with it was the last thing on my mind.
I never answer unknown numbers. I hate the suspense, the uncertainty of who or what might be on the other end. But that day, something gnawed at me, a gut feeling that I couldn't shake, pushing me to pick up the call.
As I lifted the phone, my hand felt like it was moving without my permission. The moment the county sheriff spoke, I knew it wasn't just a stranger's mistake. His voice had that tone—controlled, low, each word landing with a terrible finality.
And a part of me had hoped. Some foolish, desperate corner of my mind had convinced itself it was all some twisted error. That maybe, just maybe, the sheriff would tell me they'd gotten it wrong, that the person under that crushed silver sedan wasn't Evan.
But there was no mistake.
The sheriff wasn't calling to comfort me. He was calling to tell me things I never wanted to know, things that twisted my insides until I thought I might break.
As soon as they'd taken me home, he said, Evan's car caught fire. A sickening scent of burning rubber and metal filled the air, but they kept trying to pull him out. They tried desperately, but the car's twisted wreckage had wrapped itself around him.
He hadn't stood a chance.
The impact had impaled him, a cruel twist of steel through his chest, pinning him in place. They did everything they could, he assured me, but all that was left was the blackened, charred remains of someone they couldn't save.
Evan Graham, gone at twenty-seven.
The words blurred together, none of them real, none of them words I ever thought I'd have to hear about him. There were so many things I wanted to say—so many things I couldn't say—because none of them would bring him back.
Right then, a voice interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
"Miss Calderon, are you really taking time off after everything?" My coworker's voice broke through like static, pulling me back to the gray walls of the office.
"Yeah," I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, forcing a weak smile. "Just a few weeks."
"A few weeks?" His brow furrowed, eyes searching mine as if for answers. "You're…going away that long?"
A year ago, I wouldn't have had an answer for him. Back then, I didn't know where I was, or if I'd ever come back. Reality and nightmares had blended together, each moment clawing at my sanity.
But now, I've got an answer.
"Westfall." I said the name quietly, feeling the heaviness of it settle into the air.
I saw the change in his face instantly—the flicker of surprise and something else, something unspoken. He shifted, eyes dropping. "Oh. Miss Calderon…that's near…close to that day, isn't it?"
"Yes," I said, forcing the words out, my voice sounding hollow. "But I'm doing okay now. Still hurts, but…I'm good. It's the only way I can be. Evan wouldn't want me stuck in the past."
"He really loved you," he murmured, looking down. "Everyone knew it."
The words turned my stomach, twisting in that familiar, sickening way. I hated how people would tell me that, hated that it was all I had left of him—memories, words, fragments. A life reduced to echoes.
It only reminded me of what I'd lost.
Every time someone mentioned his name, it was like they were cutting open a wound I couldn't let heal. Memories flooded back, sharp and raw, like I was still trapped in those moments where we were together, where everything had made sense.
But it didn't make me feel closer to him. It only made the reality worse.
I felt my throat tighten, my lips trembling, and knew I had to leave. I nodded, ignoring his sympathetic look, already turning away, already pushing myself out of the office.
There was nothing left to say.
The words I wanted to say were for one person only, someone who was beyond my reach, someone I would never hold again. I walked through the office doors, each step heavy, feeling like I was sinking into a void.
I pushed open my car door, sliding into the driver's seat, feeling the soft leather press against me. My suitcases were already packed, carefully stowed in the trunk, each one loaded with things I'd chosen just for this trip.
I knew the drive ahead was long, but I barely felt ready to face it.
I'd requested terminal leave. My supervisors were considerate enough to approve it, and I took their quiet understanding as a mercy I hadn't expected. I hated the endless hours, the mundanity, but I was grateful they'd let me go.
I didn't know how long I'd stay in Westfall. All I knew was that I had to go back.
As I drove, the familiar hum of the engine settled around me, a faint comfort as I watched the scenery blur by. Time felt like it had stopped, every mile pulling me deeper into the past, memories merging with reality in a way that left me feeling untethered.
Eventually, I found myself on that same, narrow stretch of road, my hands tightening on the wheel. The memories closed in, unrelenting—the smell of burning rubber, the flash of red and blue lights staining the night.
Every time I blinked, I saw the silver sedan, upside down, his name whispering through the dark like a haunting I couldn't escape.
The sky darkened, clouds gathering as rain began to hammer down, turning the windshield into a blurred canvas of water. The rhythmic patter filled the silence, but I could barely hear it past the pounding in my chest.
Tonight, of all nights, the moon would be full.
I remembered Westfall's strange tradition, the one the locals never fully explained. Some ritual, they said, some secret part of their past that they honored on the night of a full moon. And it had to be tonight.
A flicker of doubt crossed my mind—would they even let me in?
Squinting against the rain, I tried to make out the shapes ahead, the blurry lines of trees and road signs barely visible in the downpour. If it weren't for the eerie glow of the moon, I wouldn't have been able to see the twisted branches looming over the road.
The rain was relentless, hammering against the roof of my car, a ceaseless roar that drowned out everything else. I fumbled to turn on the radio, needing something, anything, to break the silence.
That's when I heard it—a howl, low and distant, reverberating through the rain. The sound sent a shiver up my spine, something primal, raw, as if it were tearing through the darkness itself.
Then I saw it. A flash of brown fur, streaking across the road, a blur of movement against the black.
I slammed on the brakes, feeling the car jerk as it skidded across the wet road. The sound of tires screeching echoed through the empty night, a scream piercing through the silence.
The car spun, my vision blurring as the world tilted, memories flooding my mind. Images of Evan, of family, of moments I thought I'd never lose—all of it flashing before me like some final, desperate reminder.
I barely saw the animal as it collided with the car, a massive weight slamming against the hood with a sickening crunch. Everything spun, my vision going dark, the world falling away in a rush of sound and silence.
And then, just as everything faded, I saw them.
Hazel eyes, familiar and haunting, staring back at me.
And a voice—a voice that I'd know anywhere, no matter the time, no matter the distance.
"Haven?"