Damien Cross arrived in New Orleans with nothing but a duffel bag, a scar across his forearm he didn't remember getting, and the kind of silence in his chest that didn't feel natural.
Not grief.
Not loss.
More like… absence.
As if something vital had been carved out of him while he slept.
He stood before the rust-stained façade of the apartment he'd leased in a haze, its windows opaque with grime. The iron gate groaned as he pushed it open. It felt wrong here—too still for a city like New Orleans, where even the wind carried music and ghosts in its lungs.
Inside, the air was stale, as though it hadn't been breathed in years. He flipped the light switch. Nothing. Of course.
His phone buzzed.
New Voicemail – Jade
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. He hadn't told her he was coming here. Hadn't told anyone. But Jade always knew. She was a lawyer—practical, obsessive with detail, and far too good at digging things up.
"D, it's me. Look, I don't know what's going on, but you've been off lately. You disappear, you don't answer texts, and now I'm hearing from a mutual friend that you sublet a place in New Orleans? Seriously? I know you've been… struggling. But whatever you're chasing—it won't bring her back. Please call me."
He closed the voicemail and slipped the phone into his pocket. Her voice had that tight edge—half worry, half exasperation. Jade had always tried to protect him. She just never understood that what he needed protection from wasn't out there.
It was inside.
He entered the apartment.
The walls were lined with faded wallpaper, peeled at the corners. An old mirror leaned against the far wall, wrapped in a yellowing sheet. He ignored it.
The bedroom was worse. Mold had claimed one corner, and a single picture frame rested on the floor. It was facedown.
He picked it up.
A photo of a house—white-paneled, modest. Familiar.
It was their house. The one that burned.
But that house was gone. Had been for twenty years.
The back of the photo had words written in shaky ink:
"She's waiting where it ended."
Damien blinked. His head throbbed.
And then—
Footsteps.
Behind him. Slow. deliberate.
He turned sharply—nothing there. Just the mirror now uncovered, its sheet fallen to the floor.
In the reflection, his eyes didn't match. One was his. The other…
Not.
The sound of the footsteps faded.
Then a voice—not aloud, but inside him, like a memory misremembered.
"Run, Damien."
His knees gave. He hit the floor, breath shallow, vision static.
FLASHBACK – The Night of the Fire
He was eight.
The hallway swam with smoke. He ran barefoot down the stairs, calling for his mother.
The kitchen glowed red.
She stood there, her back to him, facing a man cloaked in darkness—his skin pale as candlewax, his coat shifting with the light like oil.
Damien saw the fear in her eyes before she even turned.
"You said he was off-limits," she said to the man. "You swore."
"You broke the deal," the man replied.
And then—
Flames. Screams. A closet door slamming.
"He doesn't remember. That's the only reason he's still alive."
PRESENT
Damien gasped awake on the floor, clutching the picture frame. His palms were bleeding.
His phone buzzed again.
Another message.
"Your memories belong to her now."
And another:
"Check your journal."
He blinked.
Journal?
His bag sat in the corner of the room. He hadn't packed a journal. He was sure of it.
Still, when he unzipped the bag, a leather-bound book waited inside. Smooth. Familiar.
He opened to the first page.
Written in harsh, slanting ink:
"You're not crazy. You're remembering."