The nightmare always starts the same.
The bus lurches forward, metal screaming as it rips through the railing. Then comes the fall. For a heartbeat, I'm weightless then the river swallows us whole. Screams tear through the air, sharp and endless, clashing with the sound of twisting steel. Some cut off too suddenly, others stretch on, warped and distant, like echoes trapped underwater.
The cold is unbearable. Ice crushes into my chest, filling my lungs faster than I can fight it. I thrash small, weak, just a boy again. Every gasp is a knife. Every breath pulls me deeper.
"I can't! I can't—help me! I don't want to die!" The voice doesn't even sound like mine. It's high, broken, lost in the current.
And then her hand.
She's there. Eight years old. Fragile, tiny. But her grip is iron. Her hair drifts like black ribbons, her pale face glowing, her eyes too bright, even here.
"Don't scream," she whispers, her voice muffled by the water. "Look at me. I'm here."
But then I see it the jagged metal spearing through her stomach, blood spilling out into the river like smoke. Still, she holds me. Still, she doesn't let go.
We break the surface for just one breath. "I won't let go," she whispers. "I promise."
But the nightmare doesn't stop there. It never does.
On the riverbank, my hands claw into the mud as I drag myself up. She collapses beside me, trembling, so small in the dirt. The blood spreads too fast, soaking the ground, staining everything. I beg her to stay, shaking her, screaming her name
"As long as you're safe..." she whispers, a faint smile breaking me in two. "It's okay..."
Her eyes close. Her hand slips from mine.
And the silence breaks into my screams raw, endless, tearing across the riverside. Louder than the sirens. Louder than the river. Louder than anything.
I scream until
Fifteen years later—
I wake with that same scream clawing at my throat. My chest is pounding, sweat sticking to my skin. For a moment, I can't tell if I'm still there drowning all over again, her hand slipping from mine.
He sat on the edge of the bed, chest bare and damp, the dream clinging to him like it refused to let go. His dark hair, messy and untamed, framed a face carved in sharp lines jaw strong, cheekbones high, lips pressed tight with unspoken ache. The dim light traced his body, catching the hard lines of his shoulders, the sculpted planes of his torso, every breath flexing muscle with quiet strength. Even in stillness, there was an intensity about him handsome in a way almost too unreal, as though beauty itself had chosen him.
"Fifteen years... and it still feels real."
No matter how much time passes, the memory won't leave me. It won't let me forget.
I stand and walk toward the terrace. The floor is cool under my feet, the night air brushing against me, steadying me. Below, the city lights scatter like stars fallen to earth. I lean on the railing, closing my eyes, letting the wind carry the weight of what I can't release.
And then, like always, her name slips out of me soft, aching, unshakable.
"Mavys..."
Every night is the same. The same dream. The same ache. Fifteen years later, and I'm still caught between past and present held hostage by a promise, by a hand I couldn't hold onto.
The phone rings.
I don't flinch. Slowly, I turn, cross the room, and pick it up. My voice is low, clipped.
"Talk."
"We found her, Mr. D'hale," comes the voice on the other end. "I'm on my way with the files."
I don't answer right away. My hand tightens around the phone, the weight of the words heavy against me.
"Good," I say quietly, calm but dangerous. "I'll be waiting."
The city lights pour faintly through the glass, spilling across the room. My hand moves to the chain around my neck, pulling out the small silver locket that hasn't left me not once in fifteen years.
The edges are worn now, dulled with time, but when I open it, her face smiles back at me.
I trace my thumb across the image, slow and careful, as if even through the glass she might break.
"Mavys..." I whisper again, softer this time.
The locket snaps shut in my hand. My grip tightens.
He sat alone long after the man had gone, the photographs spread across the table like fragile pieces of a dream he'd never dared to hope for. The city lights spilled in from the terrace, flickering against the glass, but all he saw was her face.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of searching.
Of waking up to the same nightmare, her voice still in his ears, her hand slipping from his.
And now she was alive.
His fingers brushed over one of the photos. The image was grainy, blurred, but he didn't need clarity to know her. He could have picked her out of a thousand faces, in any crowd, in any place. That was Mavys.
His chest tightened. He didn't know if it was relief, anger, or something in between. Maybe both. Maybe more.
Why she suddenly disappeared?
Why she stopped coming to class after getting discharged from the hospital?
Did she truly not remember-or had she chosen to forget?
The questions clawed at him, but he pushed them down. It didn't matter. Not now. What mattered was simple: she was out there.
And he was going to find her.
He stood and walked back to the terrace, the night air rushing against his bare skin, cool and grounding. Below, the city pulsed with life, each light a reminder that she was somewhere among them, breathing, walking, smiling without him.
His hand rose to his chest, gripping the locket beneath his shirt.
"I told you I'd keep my promise," he whispered to the wind. His voice was low, almost breaking, but there was steel in it too. "This time... I won't let go."
The phone on the table buzzed again, pulling him back. He turned, his expression shifting into something sharp, unreadable. The world would soon know the lengths he was willing to go.
For fifteen years, grief had defined him.