The world felt strange when I stepped out of the hospital doors. The air was damp, carrying the scent of rain and old earth. I held onto Aunt's hand, though I felt like a stranger in my own skin. Six months in a coma had stolen time from me—time I could never get back.
At home, everything seemed both familiar and distant. The walls were painted cream, the curtains old and fading, and the faint ticking of the clock was the only sound in the small house. My cousin, Anastasia, sat quietly across from me at dinner. She was cheerful, talkative, but I barely heard her words. My mind was elsewhere—lost in the night of the accident.
The flash of headlights.
The sound of tires screeching.
The crash.
And then… darkness.
I pressed my fingers against my temple, trying to chase away the images. Aunt noticed and placed her hand over mine.
"It's over now, Elise," she said softly. "You survived. That's all that matters."
But something in her eyes told me there was more. A shadow she wasn't saying out loud.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come. Instead, I heard whispers—soft, unfamiliar, drifting through the window as though carried by the wind.
Curious, I got up and pushed the curtains aside.
And that's when I saw him.
A boy stood across the street under the glow of the pale moonlight. His skin was impossibly fair, his eyes glowing faintly red, watching me with an intensity that froze me where I stood. He didn't move, didn't blink, yet I felt as though he could see straight into my soul.
My breath caught in my throat.
Who was he?
And why did it feel like I had seen him before—on the night of the accident?