The silence stretched thin, a thread ready to snap. I sat on the floor, the necklace pressed between my palms, its tiny heart pendant digging into my skin. The word "Raisa" stared up from the paper on the table, jagged and uneven, like a wound I'd carved into the blankness. My head throbbed harder now, each pulse a reminder of the clock I couldn't see but felt ticking down. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-three left, maybe. I wasn't sure how long I'd been awake.
The speaker crackled again, sharp and sudden, pulling me upright. My breath caught as the voice slithered out, slower this time, deliberate: "You held her by the water. You felt her tremble." I clenched the necklace tighter, my knuckles whitening. The river flashed in my mind again—murky, rushing, cold. Raisa stood there, her hair whipping in the wind, her hands reaching for me. I saw myself step closer, but the memory splintered: her face twisted, her mouth opened in a silent cry, and then—nothing.
"What do you want from me?" I rasped, my throat dry. The speaker didn't answer. It never did. I stumbled to my feet, pacing the small space, the concrete walls closing in like a fist. The dripping sound was louder now, a steady rhythm mocking my heartbeat. I pressed my hands to my ears, but it wouldn't stop. Neither would the voice in my head—hers, maybe—whispering words I couldn't catch.
I turned back to the table, the pen lying where I'd dropped it. "Held her by the water," I muttered, testing the words. They felt true, heavy with something I couldn't name. I grabbed the pen and wrote them beneath her name: Raisa. Held her by the water. My hand shook, the ink smearing as I pressed too hard. Another fragment surfaced—her fingers brushing mine, warm against the chill of the night. She'd said something then, soft and urgent. "Don't let go," maybe. Or had I imagined it?
The necklace slipped from my hand, clinking against the floor. I knelt to pick it up, and as my fingers closed around it, another memory hit—sharp, vivid. We were running, her hand in mine, the ground uneven beneath us. Rain pelted down, soaking us through, and she laughed, breathless, glancing back at me with those eyes—bright, alive. "We'll make it," she'd said. Make it where? The joy of it faded fast, swallowed by the river again, the blood on my hands.
I lurched back, slamming into the wall. "No," I said aloud, as if denying it could erase the image. But it stayed, clawing at me. Had I hurt her? The voice said I'd betrayed her, but this—running with her, her laughter—it didn't fit. I pressed the necklace to my chest, trying to hold onto that warmth, that Raisa, not the one who screamed in my mind.
The speaker buzzed again. "She begged you to stop," it said, each word a knife twisting deeper. "But you didn't." My stomach churned. I saw her again—on her knees, hands raised, her voice breaking. "Lukas, please—" My name. She'd said my name. I staggered to the table, scrawling it down: Lukas. Me. That was me.
I stared at the paper, my name beside hers, linked by those damning words. Held her by the water. She begged you to stop. "Stop what?" I shouted, slamming the pen down. The neon light flickered faster, casting the room in stuttering shadows. I tore at my hair, pacing again, desperate for something solid. The voice was lying. It had to be. But the blood—the blood felt real.
I sank to the floor again, the necklace dangling from my fingers. Another memory crept in, softer this time. Raisa sitting beside me, somewhere quiet—a room, maybe, with wooden walls. She traced the scar on my arm—the one I'd noticed earlier, a jagged line I didn't understand. "You're stronger than you think," she'd said, her voice steady, her touch light. I'd smiled then, I think. I'd believed her.
The speaker's hiss yanked me back. "You're running out of time, Lukas." I froze. It knew my name. How? I hadn't said it aloud—not until now. My eyes darted to the speaker, then the paper, then the door. "Who are you?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "What do you know about her?"
Silence. Always silence after the questions. I grabbed the pen again, writing frantically: She begged me to stop. But I didn't. The words stared back, accusing. I didn't want them to be true, but they fit too well, slotting into the gaps of my broken mind. I saw her face again—pleading, terrified—and my own hands reaching out, not to help, but to—
"No!" I threw the pen across the room. It hit the wall and clattered down, useless. I pressed my forehead to the concrete, the cold seeping into me. "Raisa," I whispered, her name a lifeline. "What happened to you?" The necklace hung heavy in my hand, its heart pendant glinting faintly. I wanted her back—the Raisa who laughed in the rain, who touched my scar like it meant something. Not this ghost haunting me with blood and screams.
The dripping grew louder, insistent. I stood, searching for it, running my hands along the walls. Nothing. No cracks, no pipes—just that endless sound, driving me mad. I stopped at the door, pressing my ear to the steel. Was it out there? Was she? I pounded on it again, harder, until my fists ached. "Raisa!" I yelled, my voice raw. "Are you there?"
The speaker crackled one last time. "She's closer than you think," it said, and the words sank into me like ice. I turned, scanning the room, but it was empty—nothing but the table, the paper, the necklace. Closer? How? My gaze fell to the paper, my messy scrawl: Raisa. Lukas. She begged me to stop. And beneath it, in faint pencil I hadn't written, a single word: Look.
I stared, my breath hitching. Look where? The room spun, the neon light buzzing like a swarm. I dropped to my knees, searching the floor, the table, the walls. Nothing. Until I looked down—at the necklace in my hand. The heart pendant wasn't smooth anymore. Etched into it, so small I'd missed it before, was a symbol: an R, curved and delicate. Her initial.
My hands trembled as I held it up to the light. "Raisa," I said again, and this time, it felt like she answered.
The silence stretched thin, a thread ready to snap. I sat on the floor, the necklace pressed between my palms, its tiny heart pendant digging into my skin. The word "Raisa" stared up from the paper on the table, jagged and uneven, like a wound I'd carved into the blankness. My head throbbed harder now, each pulse a reminder of the clock I couldn't see but felt ticking down. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-three left, maybe. I wasn't sure how long I'd been awake.
The speaker crackled again, sharp and sudden, pulling me upright. My breath caught as the voice slithered out, slower this time, deliberate: "You held her by the water. You felt her tremble." I clenched the necklace tighter, my knuckles whitening. The river flashed in my mind again—murky, rushing, cold. Raisa stood there, her hair whipping in the wind, her hands reaching for me. I saw myself step closer, but the memory splintered: her face twisted, her mouth opened in a silent cry, and then—nothing.
"What do you want from me?" I rasped, my throat dry. The speaker didn't answer. It never did. I stumbled to my feet, pacing the small space, the concrete walls closing in like a fist. The dripping sound was louder now, a steady rhythm mocking my heartbeat. I pressed my hands to my ears, but it wouldn't stop. Neither would the voice in my head—hers, maybe—whispering words I couldn't catch.
I turned back to the table, the pen lying where I'd dropped it. "Held her by the water," I muttered, testing the words. They felt true, heavy with something I couldn't name. I grabbed the pen and wrote them beneath her name: Raisa. Held her by the water. My hand shook, the ink smearing as I pressed too hard. Another fragment surfaced—her fingers brushing mine, warm against the chill of the night. She'd said something then, soft and urgent. "Don't let go," maybe. Or had I imagined it?
The necklace slipped from my hand, clinking against the floor. I knelt to pick it up, and as my fingers closed around it, another memory hit—sharp, vivid. We were running, her hand in mine, the ground uneven beneath us. Rain pelted down, soaking us through, and she laughed, breathless, glancing back at me with those eyes—bright, alive. "We'll make it," she'd said. Make it where? The joy of it faded fast, swallowed by the river again, the blood on my hands.
I lurched back, slamming into the wall. "No," I said aloud, as if denying it could erase the image. But it stayed, clawing at me. Had I hurt her? The voice said I'd betrayed her, but this—running with her, her laughter—it didn't fit. I pressed the necklace to my chest, trying to hold onto that warmth, that Raisa, not the one who screamed in my mind.
The speaker buzzed again. "She begged you to stop," it said, each word a knife twisting deeper. "But you didn't." My stomach churned. I saw her again—on her knees, hands raised, her voice breaking. "Lukas, please—" My name. She'd said my name. I staggered to the table, scrawling it down: Lukas. Me. That was me.
I stared at the paper, my name beside hers, linked by those damning words. Held her by the water. She begged you to stop. "Stop what?" I shouted, slamming the pen down. The neon light flickered faster, casting the room in stuttering shadows. I tore at my hair, pacing again, desperate for something solid. The voice was lying. It had to be. But the blood—the blood felt real.
I sank to the floor again, the necklace dangling from my fingers. Another memory crept in, softer this time. Raisa sitting beside me, somewhere quiet—a room, maybe, with wooden walls. She traced the scar on my arm—the one I'd noticed earlier, a jagged line I didn't understand. "You're stronger than you think," she'd said, her voice steady, her touch light. I'd smiled then, I think. I'd believed her.
The speaker's hiss yanked me back. "You're running out of time, Lukas." I froze. It knew my name. How? I hadn't said it aloud—not until now. My eyes darted to the speaker, then the paper, then the door. "Who are you?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "What do you know about her?"
Silence. Always silence after the questions. I grabbed the pen again, writing frantically: She begged me to stop. But I didn't. The words stared back, accusing. I didn't want them to be true, but they fit too well, slotting into the gaps of my broken mind. I saw her face again—pleading, terrified—and my own hands reaching out, not to help, but to—
"No!" I threw the pen across the room. It hit the wall and clattered down, useless. I pressed my forehead to the concrete, the cold seeping into me. "Raisa," I whispered, her name a lifeline. "What happened to you?" The necklace hung heavy in my hand, its heart pendant glinting faintly. I wanted her back—the Raisa who laughed in the rain, who touched my scar like it meant something. Not this ghost haunting me with blood and screams.
The dripping grew louder, insistent. I stood, searching for it, running my hands along the walls. Nothing. No cracks, no pipes—just that endless sound, driving me mad. I stopped at the door, pressing my ear to the steel. Was it out there? Was she? I pounded on it again, harder, until my fists ached. "Raisa!" I yelled, my voice raw. "Are you there?"
The speaker crackled one last time. "She's closer than you think," it said, and the words sank into me like ice. I turned, scanning the room, but it was empty—nothing but the table, the paper, the necklace. Closer? How? My gaze fell to the paper, my messy scrawl: Raisa. Lukas. She begged me to stop. And beneath it, in faint pencil I hadn't written, a single word: Look.
I stared, my breath hitching. Look where? The room spun, the neon light buzzing like a swarm. I dropped to my knees, searching the floor, the table, the walls. Nothing. Until I looked down—at the necklace in my hand. The heart pendant wasn't smooth anymore. Etched into it, so small I'd missed it before, was a symbol: an R, curved and delicate. Her initial.
My hands trembled as I held it up to the light. "Raisa," I said again, and this time, it felt like she answered.