Dawn cracked open over the river like a broken egg — pale, sickly light spilling over the old bridge, chasing away the mist but not the cold that clung to Nora's bones.
She sat cross-legged on the bridge planks, the broken phone in her lap like the corpse of some ancient insect. Beside her, Chris leaned back against the railing, eyes half-closed, breathing ragged. The fight had left him pale and shaking, but alive.
They hadn't said a word in an hour. Words felt pointless after tearing open the night and watching something wear her brother's voice like a stolen coat.
A gull cried overhead. Somewhere below, the river sloshed against the bridge pilings, black and uncaring.
Nora brushed her fingers over the shattered screen, half-expecting it to flicker back to life, to spit static at her, to ring again with that voice that wasn't Ben's — or was too much like Ben's to bear.
Chris finally broke the silence. "You should throw it in."
Nora flinched. "The river?"
Chris nodded, eyes still on the dawn sky. "Salt water kills things like this. Or moving water, anyway. If you believe the old stories."
Nora laughed — a cracked sound that made her chest ache. "Do you believe them?"
Chris's jaw worked side to side. He wiped a fleck of dried blood from his temple. "I believe this thing crawled out of somewhere worse than nightmares. And I believe it's not really dead."
She hugged the phone tighter to her chest. Its sharp, splintered glass dug into her palm. "So why does it feel so empty now?"
He turned to her, eyes tired but warm. "Because you pulled him through. Ben." He swallowed. "I heard him. That was really him — for a heartbeat. You gave him enough light to get loose."
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away. "I didn't save him."
Chris touched her wrist — gently, like she might break if he pressed too hard. "You did more than anyone else could have. That thing had him for months, Nora. It used him because you loved him so much you'd answer, every time. But tonight? You said no."
Nora looked at the phone. The dead thing in her lap. A gate, Chris had called it. A door. She wondered what else might be standing behind that door, listening. Waiting.
They left the bridge at sunrise. Chris held her hand as they crossed the cracked asphalt back to the bus stop. Neither spoke. The sun climbed through the dirty city skyline, but it felt like it had less light than before — as if the night had swallowed some of it and refused to give it back.
They sat on the bus together, huddled in the back, the shattered phone wrapped in Nora's scarf.
"Your aunt's gonna freak," Chris said, his voice raw but softer now. "You've been out all night."
Nora managed a tired grin. "She'll yell. Then she'll make tea. Then she'll pretend she doesn't believe in ghosts."
Chris's lips curved. "Normal's nice."
The bus rattled over potholes, carrying them through streets waking up to ordinary life — people in suits, kids with backpacks, delivery trucks humming at red lights.
For a heartbeat, Nora wanted to believe she could step off the bus and leave the dead things behind her. That she could bury the phone, hug her aunt, drink that tea, and sleep for twelve hours with no nightmare waiting to yank her out of bed.
But then Chris shifted beside her. His sleeve rode up, and she saw the jagged burn on his wrist — a dark mark like an old static burn, raw and crusted.
She grabbed his hand. "Chris — what's this?"
He tugged the sleeve down, but she wouldn't let go. "It's nothing. Just… fallout."
"Fallout?" Her voice cracked. "It touched you, didn't it?"
Chris's eyes flicked to the window. His reflection looked older than seventeen — like he'd aged a decade overnight. "It used me, too. Not like Ben. But enough to mark me. I thought I could shut the door myself. I thought if I got close enough…" He trailed off.
Nora's fingers tightened around his. "Chris — what aren't you telling me?"
He looked at her, really looked at her, like he was memorizing her face. "You broke the phone, Nora. That was good. But this thing… it's older than glass and plastic. It's part of something bigger. This city has holes in it — cracks the dead slip through when nobody's watching. The phone was just… the mouthpiece."
Nora felt cold all over again. "So it's not over?"
Chris squeezed her hand, and she hated how weak it felt — like he was the one who needed her strength now. "No. It's not over. But you're not alone anymore. We'll find the next crack before it finds you."
When the bus dropped them at Nora's street, dawn had bloomed fully into weak daylight. Her house waited at the end of the block, small and plain and so heartbreakingly normal she could've cried.
They stood at the bottom of the steps. Chris pulled his hood up. She noticed then how pale he really was, how his shoulders sagged under the weight of the night.
"You gonna be okay?" she asked.
Chris nodded, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. I just need to rest. You too. Bury that thing. Salt it. Do something."
Nora clutched the wrapped phone to her chest. "Will you stay?"
Chris's eyes softened. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "I can't. Not yet. There's something else I have to find. Something that's been whispering even before the phone."
A chill skittered down her spine. "Chris—"
He stepped back, a ghost himself in the morning fog. "I'll come back. I promise. Just… don't answer if it calls again. Not even once."
He turned and melted into the street before she could say please stay.
Nora watched him go. Then she climbed the porch steps and pushed through the front door. The hallway smelled like her aunt's lavender candles. She dropped her backpack, stumbled into the kitchen, and sank into a chair.
She placed the dead phone on the table. Stared at it.
Then she rose, grabbed the old tin where her aunt kept rock salt, and poured it over the broken screen until it was buried under white grains. She carried the whole mess to the backyard.
With shaking hands, she dug a hole at the base of the old oak tree — the tree Ben used to climb when he was little. She laid the salt-wrapped phone in the dirt. Covered it. Pressed her palm to the fresh mound of earth.
"Sleep," she whispered. "Stay gone."
She sat there for a long time, listening to the morning birds, the hum of cars on the street, the living world that didn't care about the dead.
Inside, her aunt found her curled on the couch hours later, still in the same clothes, face smudged with dirt. She made tea without asking questions. Nora drank it in silence, eyes half-closed, dreams twitching behind her eyelids like shadows trying to crawl back in.
Before sleep dragged her under, she felt something cold prickle under her skin — a thought that wouldn't let go. If there was one phone, there could be more. More cracks. More doors.
And Chris. Somewhere out there, chasing the next shadow alone.
Nora's hand closed into a fist on the blanket. Next time, we face it together.