The train station was nearly empty at this late hour. The cold steel benches reflected the harsh fluorescent lights above, creating a sterile, almost otherworldly glow. Clara sat at the edge of one such bench, her hands trembling as she stared at the notebook she had found in Elias's apartment.
The words inside were incomprehensible. Symbols mixed with broken sentences, some in languages she didn't recognize. The last entry was scrawled in jagged, frantic handwriting:
"I must see him again. I have to ask why."
She flipped the page, hoping for more, but it was blank. The stark emptiness of it felt like a mocking laugh, an accusation.
Her phone buzzed. She hesitated, afraid to look, but the compulsion to confront her fear won out. The message was from the same unknown number as before:
"You still don't understand. You were never innocent."
Clara's breath caught. Her fingers hovered over the screen, unsure of whether to respond. She finally typed out a single word:
"Who?"
There was no reply. She stared at the phone, willing it to buzz again, but the silence was suffocating. She stuffed it into her pocket, the weight of the unanswered question pressing down on her chest.
A train pulled into the station, its brakes screeching. Clara stood, clutching the notebook tightly. She didn't know where she was going, but staying still felt like surrendering to the void that had been growing inside her since Julien's death.
---
Elias stumbled through a forest that shouldn't have existed. The trees were skeletal, their branches like claws scratching at the night sky. The air was thick with fog, and every step he took felt like sinking into quicksand.
He couldn't remember how he had gotten here. The last thing he recalled was the room collapsing around him, the shadow-Julien's voice accusing him, tearing at the fragile barriers he had built in his mind.
Now, he was alone—or at least, he hoped he was.
But the forest was alive. It whispered to him, the voices low and conspiratorial. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear: disdain.
He tripped over a root and fell hard, his hands sinking into the damp earth. When he looked up, he saw something glinting in the darkness—a small, circular object half-buried in the ground.
Elias dug it out with trembling fingers. It was a pocket watch, its surface tarnished but still intact. He flipped it open. The hands weren't moving, but the face was inscribed with a phrase that sent a chill down his spine:
"Time doesn't heal. It remembers."
A laugh echoed through the forest, high-pitched and hollow. Elias spun around, clutching the watch like a talisman.
"Who's there?" he called, his voice cracking.
The laugh came again, closer this time. The fog parted, and a figure emerged—a woman dressed in tattered clothes, her face obscured by a veil. She held a lantern, its flame flickering unnaturally.
"You've come far," she said, her voice raspy yet melodic. "But you won't find what you're looking for."
Elias took a step back. "Who are you?"
The woman tilted her head, as if the question amused her. "I am the keeper of truths you've long since abandoned. But the truth is a heavy burden, Elias. Are you sure you want to carry it?"
"I don't have a choice," Elias said, his grip on the pocket watch tightening.
The woman laughed again. "Oh, you had a choice. You've always had a choice. You just never made the right one."
She turned and began walking deeper into the forest, her lantern casting eerie shadows. Against his better judgment, Elias followed.
---
The train rattled along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter blending with Clara's racing thoughts. She stared out the window, the city lights giving way to an endless expanse of darkness.
The notebook lay open on her lap. She had been trying to decipher the symbols, but they shifted each time she looked away, as if mocking her.
A memory surfaced unbidden: Julien's voice, calm yet insistent.
"Some truths are too dangerous to know. Once you see them, you can't unsee them."
Clara had laughed at him then, dismissing his words as melodramatic. Now, she wasn't so sure.
The train screeched to a halt at a station that wasn't on the map. Clara peered out the window, but there were no signs, no people. Just a single figure standing on the platform, shrouded in shadow.
A chill ran down her spine. She wanted to stay on the train, to let it carry her far away, but something compelled her to step off.
As the train pulled away, she realized the figure was holding something—a photograph. They held it out to her, and she hesitated before taking it.
Her blood ran cold.
It was a picture of the three of them: Elias, Julien, and herself. But in this version, their faces were wrong—blurred, distorted, as if the photograph itself were decaying.
The figure spoke, their voice distorted like a broken radio. "You left him behind."
"What do you mean?" Clara demanded, but the figure was already gone, dissolving into the shadows.
---
Elias followed the veiled woman to a clearing. At the center was a well, its stones slick with moss. The air was colder here, and Elias could feel the weight of unseen eyes watching him.
The woman gestured to the well. "This is what you seek."
Elias approached cautiously. The water at the bottom was black, its surface unnaturally still. He leaned over, and a face stared back at him—not his own, but Julien's.
The reflection spoke, its voice dripping with venom. "You think you can make this right? You think there's redemption for someone like you?"
Elias recoiled. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I—"
"You hesitated," the reflection interrupted. "You always hesitate."
The veiled woman laughed softly. "Do you see now, Elias? The truth isn't something you find. It's something you face."
Elias turned to her, desperation in his eyes. "What am I supposed to do?"
She pointed to the notebook in his hand. "Write it. Every lie, every sin, every moment you wish you could forget. Only then can you understand."
Elias opened the notebook, but the pages were no longer blank. They were filled with scenes from his past, moments he had tried to bury. The fire. Julien's screams. Clara's face, pale with horror.
Tears streamed down his face as he wrote, the pen moving as if guided by an unseen force.
---
Clara found herself standing in front of a house she hadn't seen in years. It was their old dorm, now abandoned and decaying. The windows were shattered, and the door hung off its hinges.
She stepped inside, the smell of mildew and rot assaulting her senses. Memories flooded her: late-night arguments, shared laughter, whispered secrets.
But the laughter was gone now, replaced by an oppressive silence.
In the corner of the room, she saw something glinting—a pocket watch. She picked it up, her heart pounding as she read the inscription.
"Time doesn't heal. It remembers."
The floor beneath her creaked, and she turned to see Elias standing in the doorway, the notebook in his hands.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Elias whispered, "It's time we stopped running."