The storm outside rattled the windows, the kind of restless wind that slipped beneath doors and made houses feel less like homes, more like cages.
Gabriel lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling. The photograph burned in his mind. Not the one of Zoë alone — the one Gemma had stared at, her gaze cold, unflinching, as though she were staring not at a memory but at a crime scene.
She hadn't flinched. Not once.
His parents' voices echoed faintly down the hall. They thought the storm drowned them out, but Gabriel had lived in this house long enough to know every creak, every hollow in the walls where whispers slipped through. He rose, silent, padding barefoot across the wooden floor, pressing his ear to the cool plaster.
Lucy's voice. Sharp. Cracked.
"You can't keep burying it, George. You think if we don't speak of it, it will vanish? Look around you! They're gone — children are gone! And Gemma—" Her breath broke. "She was there, that night. She saw him."
George's reply was a low growl, the sound of a man forcing reason through clenched teeth. "She saw nothing. She remembers nothing. That's why she hasn't spoken in eight years. And it's going to stay that way."
Gabriel's pulse raced. He pressed closer.
Lucy's footsteps paced — frantic, uneven. "No, George. It's not silence. It's knowledge. She doesn't speak because she knows if she does, it will all come back. The white-haired man, the screaming, the blood—"
The thud of a fist against the wall cut her off. George's voice rose, harsh and final. "Enough!"
A fragile silence followed, broken only by the storm. Then George spoke again, softer, but each word like iron. "If you break this family, Lucy… if you breathe one word of that night to the boy… it won't be him you'll answer to. It'll be me."
Gabriel stumbled back, breath shallow. His hand pressed to his chest as if he could quiet the thunder inside him. The boy? Him? Who the hell were they talking about?
The floor creaked. Gabriel froze.
Gemma stood at the end of the hallway, just beyond the weak glow of a lamp. Barefoot, her hair a dark curtain around her pale face. Her nightdress whispered around her ankles. She had been listening too.
Their eyes locked.
Gabriel's mouth went dry. "Gemma…"
She tilted her head slightly, almost curious. In her hand, she held the photograph again — the one with Zoë. Her fingers pinched its corner delicately, as though afraid to smudge it.
Without a word, she walked past him, down the stairs, into the dark. Gabriel's instinct screamed to follow, but his legs refused. It felt as if the air itself thickened around her, like shadows bent toward her in recognition.
Minutes passed. The storm growled. Finally, Gabriel forced himself to move, descending the stairs quietly.
He found her in the living room.
The photograph lay on the coffee table. But it wasn't alone anymore. Scattered beside it were others — old, torn, edges curled with age. Some of them he recognized — school photos, family gatherings. But others… no, they were wrong. Too dark, too raw. Children's faces blurred, scratched out. A smear of red across one corner.
Gabriel's breath hitched. "Where did you—"
She looked at him.
Not with anger. Not with fear. But with the stillness of someone who has already lived through the worst. Her lips parted — as if she might finally speak.
But no sound came.
Instead, she reached across the table, picked up one photograph, and turned it toward him.
It wasn't Zoë. It wasn't any student he knew.
It was Ryan. Younger. Blood on his shirt, eyes wide in terror.
Gabriel staggered back. "What the hell…?"
And in that moment, the front door rattled violently.
A knock. No — a pounding. Three sharp strikes, echoing through the storm.
Gemma didn't move. She only looked at the door, then back at Gabriel, her gaze steady.
George's voice thundered from upstairs. "Nobody open that door!"
But the pounding came again, harder, urgent.
And from outside, faint but clear through the storm —
a man's voice whispered a name.
Not Gabriel's. Not George's.
Gemma's.