The phone rang at 2:17 a.m.
Elara Moore stared at it from across the room, its glow cutting through the darkness of her apartment like an accusation. No one called at that hour. Not anymore. Not since she'd learned how to disappear.
It rang again.
She sat up slowly, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. Her body reacted before her mind could—tightening, bracing, as if something old had been summoned. The sound wasn't loud, but it echoed inside her chest, sharp and insistent.
Elara didn't move.
The phone stopped.
Silence rushed back in, thick and uneasy. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant whoosh of a passing car. Her own breathing, suddenly too loud.
Then the phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown Number.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room barefoot, the wooden floor cold beneath her feet. She picked up the phone, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then unlocked it.
Elara. It's Sheriff Hale.
Her stomach dropped.
She hadn't heard that name in ten years.
Ravenbrook.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She could pretend she hadn't seen it. She could turn the phone off, crawl back into bed, and let the past stay buried where it belonged.
The phone vibrated again.
Please call me. It's important.
Elara exhaled slowly, a tight, controlled breath. Her pulse thudded in her ears as she pressed the call button.
The line clicked.
"Hello?" Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
There was a pause. Static. Then a man cleared his throat.
"Elara Moore," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"This is Sheriff Thomas Hale. From Ravenbrook."
"I know who you are."
Another pause, longer this time. She could picture him exactly as he'd always been—broad-shouldered, tired-eyed, carrying the weight of a town that preferred its secrets intact.
"I'm sorry to be calling you so late," he said. "But we didn't know how else to reach you."
Elara leaned against the kitchen counter, her free hand gripping the edge. "What do you want?"
There it was. The question she'd avoided asking.
Someone died.
The words didn't come immediately, but she felt them anyway, settling heavy in her chest like a truth waiting to be spoken.
"There's been an incident," Hale said carefully.
An incident.
Ravenbrook's favorite word.
Her jaw tightened. "What kind of incident?"
Another breath on the other end. Slower now. Weighted.
"A death."
The room seemed to tilt. Elara closed her eyes.
She had known. Somewhere deep down, she had known.
"Who?" she asked.
The silence stretched, thin and fragile.
"Daniel Whitaker."
Her knees nearly gave out.
She hadn't heard that name spoken aloud since the night everything broke. Since the night the town collectively decided to forget.
Daniel Whitaker.
Dead.
"How?" she whispered.
"It appears to have been an accident."
Of course it did.
"Appears," Elara repeated.
"Yes."
She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "And you're calling me because…?"
Hale hesitated. "Because your name came up."
That was all it took.
A chill crawled up her spine.
"My name doesn't come up anymore," she said.
"It did tonight."
Elara looked around her apartment—the clean lines, the neutral colors, the carefully constructed life she'd built far away from Ravenbrook. No photographs. No reminders. No ghosts.
And yet, with one phone call, the walls felt thinner.
"When did it happen?" she asked.
"Two days ago."
Two days. And only now they were calling her.
"We're holding a memorial," Hale continued. "And there are… questions."
"Questions about what?"
About that night.
About what was buried.
About what Elara never learned to say out loud.
"We'd like you to come back," Hale said.
The word landed like a sentence.
Back.
Ravenbrook.
She swallowed hard. "I left for a reason."
"I know," he said quietly. "But this concerns you."
Elara stared at the dark window above the sink. Her reflection looked unfamiliar—older, sharper, but still carrying the same shadow in her eyes.
"Was it really an accident?" she asked.
Hale didn't answer right away.
When he did, his voice was lower. "That's what we're trying to determine."
The truth settled between them, unspoken but loud.
The past wasn't done with her.
"I'll think about it," Elara said.
"Please don't take too long."
The line went dead.
Elara stood there long after the call ended, phone pressed to her ear, heart pounding.
Outside, the city slept.
Somewhere miles away, a small town waited.
And the silence it had buried was finally starting to stir.
Elara didn't sleep.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling as shadows shifted with every passing car. Daniel Whitaker's name replayed in her mind, over and over, each time dragging a different memory with it. His laugh—too loud, too reckless. The way he used to drum his fingers when he was nervous. The look on his face the last time she saw him alive.
She rolled onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut.
Ten years.
Ten years of distance, of carefully avoiding news from Ravenbrook, of training herself not to flinch at certain names. And yet, all it took was one phone call to unravel it.
At dawn, she gave up on sleep.
She made coffee she didn't drink and stood by the window, watching the city wake up. People moved with purpose below—heading to jobs, routines, lives untouched by the kind of history that claws its way back in the dead of night.
Ravenbrook had never been like that.
It was the kind of town that remembered everything, even when it pretended not to. Every smile carried an undertone of knowing. Every silence was intentional.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't the sheriff.
A news alert.
LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD — RAVENBROOK INVESTIGATES TRAGIC ACCIDENT
Her breath caught.
She opened the article.
The words were careful. Sanitized. Daniel Whitaker, 34, longtime resident, found near the old quarry road. No signs of foul play. Authorities urge the public to respect the family's privacy.
The quarry.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
That place had been off-limits even when they were teenagers. A scar carved into the edge of town, where accidents happened too easily and explanations came too neatly.
She scrolled.
There was no photo.
Elara set the phone down slowly.
They were controlling the story already.
The kettle began to scream on the stove. She turned it off, hands shaking, then sank into a chair at the small kitchen table. For a long moment, she simply sat there, breathing through the pressure building behind her ribs.
She had promised herself she'd never go back.
But promises made in fear rarely survived the truth.
By mid-morning, she had made her decision.
She pulled an old suitcase from the back of her closet—the one she'd never quite unpacked. Folding clothes felt surreal, like rehearsing a version of herself she thought she'd outgrown. She added a jacket, boots, a notebook she hadn't written in for years.
At the last second, she hesitated.
Then she reached deeper into the closet and retrieved a small envelope.
Inside was a folded photograph.
Four teenagers standing at the edge of the quarry fence, sunburnt and careless. Daniel stood at the center, arm slung around her shoulders, smiling like the world hadn't learned how to hurt him yet.
Elara traced the edge of the photo once, then slipped it into the suitcase.
She locked the apartment behind her an hour later.
As the taxi pulled away, she didn't look back.
She knew better now.
Some places don't let you leave.
They just wait.