I stared at the ceiling with dead eyes.
My mind was a broken record, playing the same questions over and over.
What time is it? How long have I been sitting here, a human-shaped ghost on the floor?
My phone, forgotten on the bed, blared again. The sound was a hammer to my skull.
Why? Who else would be calling?
A sob tore from my throat.
Why was this happening to me? Was it because I'd dared to judge him, to whisper his secrets in a moment of petty gossip? If I had never looked his way—if I had just walked away—would I be safe now?
The thought was a blade in my gut. I curled into a ball, my body rocking with a pain that had nothing to do with bruises and everything to do with terror.
What do I do? Should I call the police?
My mind screamed the words, but a colder, more logical part of me answered.
And what would you tell them?
I'd have to show them the bag—the blood, the nails. They'd see a woman with no clear motive, holding a bag with her fingerprints all over it.
They would think I was a liar, a mentally disorder woman... or worse, the culprit.
I squeezed my eyes shut. How? How was he so confident my fingerprints were the only ones on it? Did he wear gloves?
The memory was a blank, a foggy, useless snapshot of that moment in the taxi. I didn't remember.
Hours passed. The sun climbed the sky, mocking my misery. I sat up, a single, shaky breath the only thing holding me together.
I had to move. I had to go to work. If I stayed here, I'd be late.
I pushed myself to my feet. My legs were jelly, a thousand miles away from my brain, and they wobbled, refusing to hold my weight. I clutched the wall, fighting the urge to fall.
Ding.
A notification flashed on my phone screen. My eyes darted to it, a sick, morbid curiosity overriding my fear.
"GREV-DC 07. This is an address. It will help you bury that thing."
My teeth ground together, a low growl escaping my lips.
I snatched the phone, my fingers closing around it like I was squeezing the life out of him. I hurled it against the wall, the screen cracking and shattering. I didn't care.
My hands flew to my hair, clawing at my scalp, pulling until the pain brought a sharp, clean focus to my panicked mind.
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Now I'm here. At the address.
The mountain air is sharp and cold, so clean it burns my swollen, sleepless eyes.
Good—no one's here. No one will recognize me. The bag weighs down my hand like a curse. I just have to bury it, then I can go home. That's all.
"I need a shovel," I tell the store clerk.
He greets me with a warm smile, but it only makes me want to wipe it from his face.
"Which kind? We have edging shovels, root shovels, pointed shov—"
"A strong one," I cut him off. "One that won't break while digging."
His smile falters. His face pales. "C-can I ask… what you'll use it for? Planting?" His voice trembles, eyes flicking to mine.
Panic surges through me.
"Planting," I lie quickly. "My grandmother wanted a pine tree here in the mountains. She never got the chance… so I came in her place."
The words fall out of me like someone else is speaking.
"Oh… I see."
He disappears inside, returns with three shovels. I grab the largest without hesitation.
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The forest swallows me whole. Each step feels heavier, but I keep moving.
I marked my way in—I won't get lost. Just a little more. A little more and I'll finally be free.
I find a spot deep within, hidden where no one dares wander. My throat burns as tears slide down. Guilt gnaws at me for a crime I didn't commit.
"No," I whisper to myself, raising the shovel. "Don't cry. Be strong. Just dig."
The earth splits under my trembling hands. Sweat stings my eyes.
When the hole is deep enough, I throw the bag inside with all my strength. It lands with a sickening thud.
I cover it quickly, each shovel of dirt feeling like it buries a piece of me too.
My chest heaves, but when I finish, a low, broken chuckle escapes my lips.
Why am I smiling?
Relief?
No… it's not relief.
Why am I relieved at all?
I wipe my face and stagger back. I need to get out of here. Just quickly.
And for the first time, I notice the forest's beauty. Sunlight streams through leaves. Birds sing. It feels unreal—like the world mocking me with peace.
But as I step out of the trees, I froze.
A tall figure in black stands at the entry gate. Waiting. Watching.