The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on my nightstand, each second dragging on like an eternity. The shadows on the ceiling shifted slightly with the movement of the fan, twisting and stretching like something alive.
I turned onto my side, trying to find a comfortable position. The sheets felt too warm, then too cold. No matter how much I adjusted, my body refused to settle.
I should have been exhausted. My eyes burned with tiredness, my limbs ached from the weight of my thoughts, but my mind—my mind refused to rest.
I stared at the ceiling, my pulse slow but heavy, the lingering tension from earlier still gripping my chest. The words from the forum post repeated in my head like a broken record.
"It’s not just about the accident. It’s about what happened before that night."
And then—
"Adrian Wilson."
I inhaled sharply, shutting my eyes. I needed to stop thinking about it. I needed to sleep.
But the moment my eyelids fluttered closed, a new thought crept in.
What if there was more to find?
My fingers twitched. The temptation was too strong.
I reached for my phone, the cold surface sending a shiver through my fingertips. The lock screen lit up. 1:49 AM.
Just a quick search. That’s all.
My thumb hovered over the browser icon.
But then—
A sound.
A soft creak.
My breath hitched.
I froze, my grip tightening on the phone. The sound had come from outside my room. Not the wind. Not the house settling. It had been deliberate. A footstep.
I stayed completely still, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
Then—another one.
Step… step…
The floorboards groaned under the weight of something—or someone.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
I turned my head slightly toward the door. The faint light from the hallway seeped through the cracks, flickering as if someone had just moved past it.
I listened, holding my breath.
Silence.
I let out a slow exhale.
Maybe I was imagining things.
I placed my phone back down and forced myself to turn away from the door, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
Stop it, Issa. You’re just being paranoid.
I shut my eyes tightly.
I didn’t even realize when sleep finally took me.
•~• CLARA'S POV •~•
The first thing I felt was the cold.
Not the kind that made you shiver, but the kind that settled deep into your skin, a dull numbness pressing against my arms where the blanket had slipped off.
I didn’t open my eyes right away.
For a long moment, I just lay there, caught between sleep and wakefulness, that strange in-between where reality hadn’t quite settled in yet. The room was quiet, except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint rustling of leaves outside the window.
Slowly, awareness crept in.
The bed beneath me was stiff, the cushions worn from years of use. My neck ached from the awkward angle I had slept in, and my arms felt heavy, as if my body hadn’t fully woken up yet.
I let out a slow breath, blinking my eyes open.
Soft light streamed in through the window, casting pale golden streaks across the wooden floor. The air smelled slightly dusty, mixed with the lingering scent of old books and faint traces of coffee from the night before.
It took me a second to remember where I was.
Right. Isabella’s house.
I shifted slightly, my joints protesting as I sat up. The blanket slid off my shoulders, pooling around my waist. I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep.
Something felt… off.
Not in an obvious way. There was no immediate sense of danger, no reason for my heart to race. But there was a strange weight in the air, a feeling I couldn’t quite place.
I turned my head slightly.
Across the room, Isabella was still curled up in the bed, her back turned to me. Her breathing was slow, steady, but her posture wasn’t relaxed. Even in sleep, she looked tense, like her body was bracing for something.
I frowned slightly.
Had she slept at all?
I wanted to ask, but something held me back. Instead, I stretched my arms above my head, wincing as my back cracked. The movement sent a slight chill down my spine, and I realized, for the first time that morning—
I didn’t dream last night.
That was… unusual.
For as long as I could remember, sleep had never come easily to me. And when it did, it was never peaceful. My dreams were always filled with fragments of the past—flashes of voices I didn’t want to hear, memories I tried to bury.
But last night, there had been nothing.
Just silence.
I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
I ran a hand through my hair, sighing softly. Don’t think about it, Clara. Not now.
Instead, I forced myself to focus on something else.
Breakfast.
I needed coffee, and Isabella needed to eat something before she locked herself away in her own head again.
I pushed the blanket off, standing up slowly. My legs felt stiff, my body still weighed down with sleep, but I ignored it.
The floor was cold against my bare feet as I made my way toward the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise.
We had a long day ahead of us.
And something told me—
It was only going to get more complicated from here.
The kitchen was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the curtains. The air was still, carrying the faint scent of old wood and something slightly stale—like a house that had been quiet for too long.
I reached for the coffee machine, pressing the button. A low hum filled the silence as the machine came to life, the familiar sound grounding me in the present.
As I waited, I opened a cabinet, scanning the shelves. Coffee first. Then food.
There wasn’t much to choose from. A few cereal boxes, some bread, and a jar of peanut butter. Simple enough.
I grabbed the bread and placed a couple of slices into the toaster. The quiet clicking as I pressed the lever down felt oddly loud in the stillness of the house.
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms as I listened to the distant sounds of the house waking up. The faint creaks in the floorboards. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The occasional whisper of wind against the window.
A moment later, I heard the shuffle of footsteps behind me.
I didn’t turn around.
“You look like a zombie,” I said, smirking slightly as I poured coffee into a mug.
A tired groan answered me.
I glanced over my shoulder. Isabella stood in the doorway, her dark hair a tangled mess, her hoodie slipping off one shoulder. She looked exhausted, eyes slightly puffy like she hadn’t slept much—if at all.
She dragged a hand down her face. “Morning to you too.”
I turned back to the counter, sliding the mug toward her. “Here. Drink. You look like you need it.”
She muttered something under her breath but took the coffee anyway, wrapping her hands around the cup like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
I watched as she took a slow sip, her shoulders dropping slightly.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The toaster popped.
I grabbed the slices, placing them onto a plate before pushing it toward her. “Eat. Before you decide to starve yourself again.”
She gave me a half-hearted glare but took a piece of toast anyway. “I don’t starve myself.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You forget to eat. Same thing.”
She didn’t argue. Probably because she knew I was right.
I took my own cup of coffee, blowing on it before taking a sip. The warmth spread through me, making the morning feel a little less heavy.
After a few moments of quiet, Isabella finally spoke.
“We’re still going to college today, right?”
I hesitated.
I had been planning to bring that up myself—because honestly, I wasn’t in the mood to go.
“We could go later,” I suggested, watching her carefully. “It’s not like we’ll miss anything important.”
Isabella shook her head immediately. “No. We need to go. I have to stop by the police station afterward.”
I frowned. “Why?”
She hesitated for just a second.
Then, in a carefully neutral voice, she said, “I just… need to check something.”
I studied her, trying to figure out what she wasn’t saying.
But I knew Isabella. She wouldn’t tell me anything until she was ready.
So instead of pushing, I sighed and took another sip of coffee. “Fine. But you owe me for dragging me out of the house this early.”
She smirked slightly. “I’ll buy you lunch.”
I rolled my eyes. “Deal.”
The house was still quiet, but somehow, it didn’t feel as suffocating as before.
The sky was still painted in soft hues of orange as we stepped outside. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. A slight breeze rustled the trees lining the driveway, making the morning feel colder than it actually was.
Isabella jingled the car keys in her hand as we walked toward the old sedan parked by the curb. The car wasn’t anything special—just a slightly worn-out black Honda that had seen better days. The paint was chipped in a few places, and the left side mirror had a small crack from that one time Isabella misjudged a turn.
She never admitted it, of course.
I slid into the passenger seat, tossing my bag onto the floor. Isabella started the engine, the low rumble breaking the quiet morning.
For a few moments, neither of us spoke.
She adjusted the rearview mirror, eyes flickering toward me briefly before shifting her focus back to the road. “Ready?”
“Not really, but let’s go anyway.”
She didn’t respond—just shifted gears and pulled out onto the street.
The road stretched ahead, bathed in soft morning light. Trees blurred past the windows, their leaves rustling in the breeze. The radio played quietly in the background, some old song humming through the speakers.
Isabella kept both hands on the wheel, her posture tense.
I could tell her mind was elsewhere.
Probably on the police station.
I leaned my head against the window, watching the scenery pass by. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”
She didn’t pretend to not understand what I meant.
Her grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “I just want to check something. That’s all.”
I sighed, shifting in my seat. “I don’t get why you can’t just wait. The police aren’t going to magically give you new information overnight.”
“I know.”
But she was still going.
I didn’t push.
We settled into silence again, the quiet hum of the car filling the space between us.
It wasn’t a long drive—just fifteen minutes—but it felt longer.
By the time we pulled into the college parking lot, the usual morning rush had already begun. Students moved in clusters, some laughing, some half-asleep as they dragged themselves toward the main building. The air buzzed with scattered conversations, the faint scent of coffee drifting from the café near the entrance.
Isabella parked the car, killing the engine.
Neither of us moved right away.
She exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
I smirked. “Wow. You sound so excited.”
“Shut up.”
I chuckled, pushing the door open.
The day had barely started.
And something told me—it was going to be a long one.
The car doors shut with a dull thud, the cool morning air rushing to greet us as we stepped out. The parking lot was already half full, rows of cars gleaming under the pale sunlight. A few students lingered near their vehicles, chatting in hushed voices or sipping from takeaway coffee cups.
Isabella adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her expression unreadable as she scanned the familiar campus ahead. I knew she wasn’t looking at the students or the buildings—her mind was still caught in whatever thoughts she refused to share.
I nudged her lightly with my elbow. “Earth to Isabella. You gonna stand there all day or actually move?”
She blinked, as if just realizing I was there. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
We started walking toward the main entrance.
The path was lined with towering trees, their leaves whispering in the wind. The early morning sunlight filtered through the branches, casting flickering patterns onto the stone pavement. Around us, students moved in their own little worlds—some rushing toward lecture halls, others strolling lazily, caught in half-hearted conversations.
I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets, sighing. “I still think we could’ve come later. I mean, missing one lecture wouldn’t kill us.”
Isabella shot me a look. “You say that every time.”
“And yet, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
She didn’t answer, just shook her head with a faint smirk.
We reached the entrance. The heavy glass doors swung open as a group of students stepped out, their laughter echoing through the hall. The inside of the building smelled like old books, coffee, and something faintly metallic—probably from the heater running nonstop.
The hallways were already filling up, the dull murmur of voices bouncing off the walls. Bulletin boards were pinned with old event posters, some curling at the edges. Someone had scribbled something in marker on one of them—a phone number with the words “call me if you dare” beneath it.
I snorted. Classic.
We weaved through the crowd, making our way toward the lecture hall. The doors were open, revealing rows of wooden seats that stretched up in a steady incline.
A few students were already inside, some setting up their laptops, others half-asleep with their heads resting on their arms.
I slid into one of the middle rows, dropping my bag onto the desk with a dull thump. Isabella sat beside me, her movements quiet, precise.
The professor hadn’t arrived yet.
I leaned back in my seat, stretching my legs out. “So, what’s today’s topic? Please tell me it’s not another two-hour lecture on historical document analysis.”
Isabella glanced at the syllabus on her phone. “It is.”
I groaned, letting my head drop against the desk. “I hate this class.”
“Then why did you take it?”
“Because someone convinced me it would be useful.” I shot her a pointed look.
She smiled faintly. “It is. You’re just lazy.”
Before I could argue, the doors at the front of the room opened.
Professor Evans stepped inside, his usual leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
•~• ISABELLA'S POV •~•
I straightened slightly as Professor Evans walked toward the front of the room, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space.
He hadn’t changed much over the years. The same sharp gaze, the same slightly wrinkled button-down shirts, the same calm presence that demanded attention without needing to raise his voice.
He set his bag down on the desk, adjusting his glasses as he scanned the room. For a brief moment, his eyes landed on me. He’d known me since I was a kid.
He didn’t say anything—just gave a slight nod before turning to the whiteboard.
I exhaled slowly, gripping my pen a little tighter.
Clara leaned over slightly, whispering, “Is it just me, or does he look like he’s about to announce a pop quiz?”
I smirked. “You’d fail it, anyway.”
“Rude.”
Before I could respond, Professor Evans cleared his throat. The murmuring in the room died down almost instantly.
He adjusted his glasses. “Good morning, everyone. Let’s get started.”
Professor Evans turned to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker with practiced ease. His handwriting was neat, precise, the letters forming smoothly as he wrote today’s topic:
"Analyzing Unfinished Manuscripts: Theories and Ethical Concerns."
My stomach twisted.
Unfinished manuscripts.
I forced myself to sit still, but I could feel my heartbeat picking up. Of all the topics, it had to be this.
Professor Evans turned back to face the class. "Throughout history, many literary works have been left incomplete for various reasons—death, personal struggles, even external pressures. Some of these lost works have become the subject of endless speculation, fueling theories about what the author intended."
I kept my face neutral, but my mind was already racing.
Adrian Wilson’s manuscript.
The one person claimed held secrets. The one that supposedly vanished when he did.
The one that might hold the answers I needed.
I barely registered the rest of his words as he moved through examples—Kafka’s unfinished works, Dickens’ The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and others.
But then—
"One of the more controversial cases of an unfinished manuscript comes from an author who mysteriously disappeared. A man named Adrian Wilson."
The air in my lungs froze.
Clara stiffened beside me.
Professor Evans continued, his expression thoughtful. "Wilson was a rising name in historical fiction before he vanished over a decade ago. His last work, never published, has been the subject of debate for years. Some believe it never existed. Others claim it was hidden away."
A pause.
His gaze flickered toward me. Just for a second.
No one else seemed to notice.
I swallowed, my grip tightening around my pen. Did he know? Was this a coincidence, or was he saying this for me?
Professor Evans moved on, discussing the ethics of posthumous publications, whether unfinished works should be released or left alone.
But I wasn’t listening.
My mind was stuck on one thought.
Professor Evans knew my mother. He knew my family. And now he was talking about Adrian Wilson.
That wasn’t a coincidence.
The lecture ended, but I barely remembered any of it. Students were already packing up, murmuring to each other as they filed out of the room.
I stuffed my notebook into my bag, my hands still feeling unsteady.
Clara nudged me. “You should talk to him.”
I hesitated.
She sighed. “Come on. You were planning to go to the police station anyway. What if he knows something?”
She was right.
I took a deep breath and stood up.
Professor Evans was at his desk, gathering his notes. Most of the students were gone now, leaving the room almost empty.
I walked over.
He looked up as I approached. His eyes—sharp, intelligent—studied me carefully.
Then, he smiled. "Isa. It’s been a long time."
I nodded slowly. "Yeah… it has."
"I hope you are fine you should have rest for some more days it wasn't necessary to come attend lectures." he said.
"Yeah, I know but I needed to distract myself". I said avoiding looking towards him.
A beat of silence.
For a moment, I just stood there, gripping the strap of my bag a little too tightly.
The lecture hall was nearly empty now, the last few students drifting toward the door, their conversations a low hum in the background. Clara lingered near the exit, pretending to check her phone—but I knew she was waiting. Watching.
Professor Evans adjusted his glasses, his expression calm but expectant.
"You have questions, don’t you?"
My breath caught.
He already knew.
His voice was even, but there was something in his tone—something knowing—that made my skin prickle.
I swallowed, shifting on my feet. "Yeah. I do."
He nodded, as if he had already expected that answer.
For a moment, he just looked at me, his sharp eyes scanning my face. Not in a judgmental way—more like he was assessing something.
Then, he sighed. "Come with me."
Without waiting for my response, he picked up his leather satchel and started toward the door at the side of the lecture hall—the one that led to his office.
I hesitated.
I glanced at Clara, who raised an eyebrow as if to say, Well? What are you waiting for?
Taking a deep breath, I followed.
The hallway leading to his office was quieter than the rest of the building. The walls were lined with framed photographs—some of old historical sites, others of him with different faculty members, shaking hands at book events or standing beside s
helves stacked with ancient manuscripts.
When we reached his door, he unlocked it without a word and stepped inside.
I followed, shutting the door behind me.
The office smelled like old books and faint traces of coffee. Stacks of papers and open textbooks covered his desk, a few of them filled with handwritten notes in neat, slanted script.
There was a tall bookshelf in the corner, packed so tightly that some books were stacked horizontally on top of others.
Professor Evans set his satchel down on the desk and gestured toward the chair across from him.
"Sit."
I did.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
He folded his hands together on the desk, watching me carefully. "I imagine this isn’t just about today's lecture."
I exhaled slowly. "No. It’s not."
A small, knowing smile. "I thought so."
He leaned back slightly, considering me.
"You’re looking into Adrian Wilson." It wasn’t a question.
My stomach twisted. How did he know?
I hesitated. "...Yes."
Professor Evans sighed, rubbing his temples. "I had a feeling you would, eventually."
That made my pulse quicken.
"What do you mean?"
He was silent for a long moment. Then, finally—
"I knew your mother, Isabella. And I knew Adrian too."
I froze.
My fingers curled against my knee. "You… knew him?"
He nodded. "Not well. But I met him, once."
I felt my breath hitch.
This was the first time anyone had confirmed it. That Adrian Wilson wasn’t just some distant mystery—he had been connected to my family.
I swallowed. "How?"
Professor Evans studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached for a folder on his desk.
He pulled out a single, slightly yellowed piece of paper.
And slid it toward me.
I stared at it, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The paper looked old, the ink slightly faded. But the handwriting—
I recognized it instantly.
It was my mother’s.
And the date written at the top?
Two days before Adrian Wilson disappeared.
My hands trembled as I reached for it.
Professor Evans spoke, his voice quieter now.
"Your mother wrote this letter." A pause. Then—
"And she sent it to Adrian."
My fingers hovered over the fragile paper, my pulse hammering so loudly I could barely hear anything else.
Professor Evans waited patiently, his expression unreadable. The office suddenly felt too quiet, the distant murmur of students in the hallway fading into nothing.
I swallowed hard and picked up the letter.
The paper was slightly rough beneath my fingertips, aged but well-preserved. My mother’s handwriting—elegant, deliberate—filled the page.
I exhaled slowly and began to read.
------
March 14th
Adrian,
I don’t know if I’m making the right decision by writing this. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s already too late. But I have to try.
You were right. About everything.
I didn’t want to believe it at first. I wanted to pretend that this was all just a coincidence—that the pieces weren’t fitting together for a reason. But they are. And now I’m terrified.
I don’t know how much time I have. Every time I try to talk to him about it, he tells me I’m imagining things. That I’m letting the past make me paranoid. But I’m not. I know what I saw.
I need to meet you.
Not here. It’s not safe. You know the place. The one we talked about last time. I’ll be there on the 16th. If something happens before then… don’t stop searching.
You were always better at finding the truth than I was.
- A.
My breath caught.
My mother had written this two days before Adrian Wilson disappeared.
And she had been afraid.
She had known something.
I read the letter again, my hands gripping the edges of the paper too tightly.
You were right. About everything.
I think someone is watching me.
If something happens before then… don’t stop searching.
I felt like the room was closing in around me.
Professor Evans’ voice broke the silence.
"You understand now, don’t you?"
I looked up, my throat tight. "Understand what?"
His gaze was steady.
"Your parents’ accident. Adrian’s disappearance. They were never separate events."
I swallowed hard, my chest tight with something I couldn’t name.
"I don’t think they were accidents at all," he continued, voice quieter now.
I barely registered my own voice when I spoke. "Then what were they?"
Professor Evans leaned forward slightly.
"Murders."
The word hung in the air, sharp and heavy, pressing against my ribs like a weight I hadn’t been ready to carry.
I forced myself to breathe, my mind spinning.
A part of me had already known. Had suspected. But hearing it—having someone say it out loud—felt like stepping off the edge of something deep and dark.
Professor Evans watched me carefully. "I don’t know the full story. But I know your mother was trying to protect you from something."
I clenched my jaw. "And Adrian?"
A pause. Then—
"He was trying to uncover the truth."
Silence stretched between us.
I stared down at the letter again, my mother’s words blurring slightly.
Then I inhaled sharply and looked up.
"Where is this place?"
Professor Evans blinked. "What?"
"The place my mother mentioned. The one where she wanted to meet Adrian." I sat up straighter, gripping the letter. "Where is it?"
A beat of hesitation.
Then, he exhaled.
"Scotland."
My stomach dropped.
I knew it.
Everything—Adrian, my parents, the truth—led back to one place.
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