The light died completely.
Not even a flicker this time. Just darkness swallowing the room whole, thick and suffocating, like the house had shut its eyes.
Fzzzt. Pop.
I froze, my hand still hovering inches from the door handle. The silence rang in my ears—no hum of electricity, no distant radio, not even the refrigerator's low drone. Just my breathing. Too fast. Too loud.
Inhale. Exhale.
Outside, Serafin shifted his weight on the porch. The wood creaked beneath his boots—reeek—slow and deliberate.
"Caoimhe," he said, calm as ever. "You still there?"
"I'm not dead," I snapped. "Yet."
A pause. Wind rushed down the street—whooooosh—rattling the loose sign across the road.
"You going to let me in," he said, "or are we doing this through the door all night?"
I pressed my forehead against the cool wood, eyes squeezed shut. Every instinct screamed don't. Don't open it. Don't trust him. Don't invite whatever the hell this was any closer.
But he already was close. Too close.
I unlocked the door—click—and pulled it open just enough to see his silhouette.
"Step inside," I said. "Slowly."
"If I get shot," he replied dryly, "I'll be very disappointed."
"You'll live."
He stepped in anyway. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, sealing us into the dark together.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I could hear him breathing. Controlled. Even. Like this was just another night.
"Power outage?" he asked.
"Congratulations," I muttered. "You have eyes."
"Town-wide," he said. "Happened faster than usual."
That word made my stomach tighten. "Usual?"
Before he could answer, my phone vibrated in my hand—bzzzzt—sharp and sudden.
Unknown Caller.
I stared at the screen, heart slamming against my ribs—thump, thump, thump.
Serafin noticed immediately. "Don't answer."
"I'm tired of being scared," I said, though my voice betrayed me. "If someone wants my attention, they can fucking say why."
I swiped to answer. "Hello?"
Static crackled—sssshhhhh—then breathing. Slow. Deliberate.
"Caoimhe," a voice said, distorted, like it was coming through water. "You came back."
My skin prickled. "Who is this?"
A low chuckle followed—heh—unnatural and wrong. "You always ask the wrong questions."
"Stop calling me," I said. "Whatever this is, I want no part of it."
"That was your mistake last time," the voice replied. "Thinking you could walk away."
Serafin stepped closer, his presence solid at my side. "End the call," he murmured.
"What do you want?" I demanded into the phone.
A pause. Then, softly: "What you took."
The line went dead—click.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed, my reflection ghostly and pale.
"What the hell was that?" I whispered.
Serafin didn't answer right away. He moved to the window, parting the curtain just enough to peer out.
"They've started," he said quietly.
"Started what?" I snapped. "You keep saying they like that explains anything."
He turned to face me. In the dark, his eyes caught the faint glow of my phone. Sharp. Serious.
"Paying attention."
A laugh burst out of me, shaky and bitter. "I come back for one night and suddenly I'm public enemy number one?"
"You never stopped being a problem," he said.
"That's bullshit."
"Is it?" he countered. "You left right before things went wrong."
"Things were already wrong," I shot back. "That's why I left."
A car passed outside—vroooom—slower than necessary. Headlights dragged across the wall, then lingered.
Serafin stiffened. "Don't move."
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because they're checking."
The lights finally moved on. My pulse didn't slow.
"This town doesn't forget," he continued. "It remembers everything. Even what people try to erase."
I crossed my arms, trying to steady myself. "You keep acting like you know me."
"I know what you were involved in."
"I wasn't involved in anything," I said sharply. "I was just—"
"You were there," he interrupted. "The night it happened."
The words punched the air from my lungs.
"No," I said. "You don't get to rewrite my life."
"I'm not rewriting it," he replied. "I'm telling you how it looks from the outside."
Silence fell between us, thick and buzzing. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked—woof, woof—then went quiet.
"What happened after I left?" I asked finally.
Serafin exhaled slowly. "People started asking questions. Then they stopped."
"Why?"
"Because the answers scared them."
My stomach twisted. "And now?"
"Now you're back," he said. "And questions don't stay buried forever."
The power surged suddenly—whrrr—lights flickering back to life. I flinched, squinting as the room brightened.
Outside, footsteps crunched on gravel—crunch, crunch—then faded.
Serafin looked at me, his expression unreadable. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
"That's not your decision."
"No," he agreed. "But it is my responsibility."
"Why?" I demanded. "Why do you care?"
For the first time, his composure cracked. Just a little.
"Because," he said quietly, "if they finish what they started eight years ago, you won't get a second chance to run."
A knock sounded at the door.
Knock. Knock.
My blood ran cold.
Serafin's gaze snapped to the door. "Did you invite anyone else?"
I shook my head.
The knock came again—slower this time. Louder.
Knock.
"Caoimhe," a familiar voice called from outside. "It's been a long time."
I recognized it instantly.
And I knew—deep in my gut—that opening that door would change everything.