The rain hadn't let up by the time we left the diner.
Sarah, Sam, and I sat in my apartment, lights off, only the streetlight outside casting long shadows through the blinds.
"You didn't die," I finally said, breaking the silence.
"No," Sam replied. "But you all let them believe I did."
I stood. "What are you talking about? You vanished. We thought—"
"No," he interrupted. "You wanted to forget. You all did."
Sarah looked at him, pale. "We were kids, Sam. We didn't know what we saw."
Sam turned to her. "Then let's remember together."
A sudden weight pressed down on my chest, like the air had thickened. My skin prickled. There was something in his voice—a steady calm that made the truth feel heavier than any accusation could. My throat was dry. My mind wanted to resist, to call this some kind of manipulation or trick. But deep inside, a crack formed, and through it spilled images—broken, blurred memories I hadn't dared to revisit in years. Something inside me was unraveling. And I wasn't sure I wanted to see what was underneath.
He pulled something out of his coat pocket — a small recorder. He hit play.
A child's voice. My voice.
"If anyone finds this... it wasn't an accident. We locked him in there. We thought it was a game, but then he stopped screaming."
I froze. My lungs forgot how to breathe.
"I don't remember this," I whispered.
"But it's you," Sam said. "And I'm still here, Jack. I got out. But Eddie… he didn't."