I went. The restaurant hadn’t changed. Warm wooden booths, soft jazz humming overhead, dim lighting casting shadows across familiar corners. Rosemary scents floated in the air alongside memories I wasn’t sure I wanted back. I watched them laugh, the way we once did, and for a fleeting moment, it almost felt… okay.
Then Nathan’s phone buzzed. He checked it and froze.
“It’s Sabrina,” he muttered, frowning.
“What? Slow down… robbed? Stabbed? Where are you?!” His voice went sharp as he dropped everything.
In seconds, both he and Gabriel were on their feet.
“She’s crying,” Nathan explained, voice tight. “She’s been attacked. We have to go.”
No goodbyes. No glance in my direction. They ran, as if the world depended on her survival.
I stayed seated, staring at the half-eaten food, the flickering candle slowly burning down to nothing. I paid the bill myself.
Outside, the sky had opened up. Thunder cracked and rain poured in sheets. Streets were empty—no taxis, no buses. The restaurant manager offered an umbrella, but the doors were already locked. I had to keep moving.
Each step weighed me down. My arms throbbed under the bandages. My body ached. But worse than the pain was the storm. Thunder rolled across the city, striking a deep fear I’d carried since childhood. During storms, I always froze. Lightning flares and thunder cracks made it feel like the world itself might split apart.
I clutched my coat tighter, pushing forward, the city a blur of lights and shadows.
Then—a sudden flash. A horn. A car.
No time to react.
Darkness.
When I woke, everything felt unnaturally soft. I blinked against dim lighting, clean white walls surrounding me. My body ached, but the pain was distant, manageable. I turned toward the source of movement nearby.
“Nathan…?” I whispered.
Not him.
A man sat in the corner. Tall, dressed in black, eyes unreadable. He didn’t stir until I tried to sit up.
“You’re awake,” he said, steady, deep. “Don’t move too much.”
“Who… are you?”
“Roscoe,” he replied. “Found you after the accident. Took you to the hospital. You were unconscious.”
I wanted to ask more, but the room spun, and I blacked out again.
When I opened my eyes, Roscoe was gone. No note. No explanation. No contact. No missed calls, no messages, no check-ins.
Except for my mother.
Mom: Call me when you’re on your way. Everything’s ready. Come home.