Chapter Seventeen
Her voice comes first—soft, low, achingly familiar.
The humming of our song settles deep in my chest. The one that used to wrap around me like safety.
The air smells like fresh linen and rain drifting through open windows.
My cheeks rest against warm fabric that carries the faint scent of another body.
My mom’s hand moves through my hair in slow, careful strokes, like she’s terrified I’ll shatter if she rushes.
I tilt my head enough to look up at her.
Mom’s face is hidden in the shadows. The edges are soft and blurred, like the dream doesn’t want me to see her too clearly.
She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
There’s a tightness in her expressions, something she’s trying to hold back from me.
“Mom?” My voice comes out small and young. Unused. Fragile.
“Yes, Sunshine?” She answers immediately, almost as if she were waiting for a question, her voice warm and gentle.
“Why are you so sad?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Even in the dream, I can feel it—that heavy feeling hiding behind her smile. Mom’s eyes shut for just a second. Then the gentle smile returns, softer this time.
Her hand pauses just long enough for my stomach to twist into a tight little knot. “I’m not sad,” she says gently. The lie is wrapped so carefully that it almost convinces me. “I’m just tired.”
“From Dad?” The question comes out small and careful, barely louder than a breath. Mom’s hand stills completely in my hair. For a moment, the only sound is my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.
The words make the room shift, the air getting stuffier. Like the walls themselves leaned in to listen. Mom kisses my forehead. “Go to sleep, Sunshine.” Her voice changes, not the lyrics, but her tone as she sings them.
The song slows, stretching, each note sinking deeper into my chest. My eyelids start to weigh down, fluttering closed as something inside me fights to stay awake, almost as if I fall asleep, something important will be missed. “Mom?” I whisper again, my voice tiny. “Will you still be here?”
“Yes. I promise.” Her arms tighten around me.
The word promise echoes as the room's warmth fades, as if someone had turned down the outside world. Her voice keeps singing, feeling further away now—like it’s drifting through a wall, or a floor, maybe even a memory.
I try to hold onto her shirt, my fingers slipping right through it.
The fabric dissolves into a soft, glowing light.
Her face blurring, smearing like wet paint.
“Mom…” The song doesn’t end. Instead, bending as the melody slows, dropping too low, stretching until every note changes—warped and broken in my ears.
The warmth around me thins, like a blanket being slowly pulled away.
Mom’s hand stays in my hair, but it’s heavier now.
Not soothing anymore. Anchoring. Her voice echoes, no longer in the room.
It comes from below. From somewhere deeper.
The light flickers. The smell shifts. Lavender and rain rot into damp concrete and cold metal.
Cold seeps into my skin, biting at my bare arms. The softness beneath me hardens, turning cruel. The floor. I know this floor.
I curl my body into a tight ball. “Mom?” Her hand slips from my hair. The song keeps going anyway, rough and unfinished. They press closer, the sound bouncing back at me in a way that makes my chest feel too tight. There’s a door somewhere. I can’t see it. I just know it’s there. Closed. Locked.
The air is thick and stale—tasting like fear and something chemical that burns.
My stomach grumbles with a sharp, painful hunger.
My legs ache when I try to move, like I’ve been still for far too long.
“Stay here,” her voice says. Not sung this time.
Spoken. The words don’t come from her mouth.
They come from everywhere. From the walls. From the dark. From inside my head.
“I don’t want to,” I whimper, my voice small again.
Younger. The sound of a child who already knows no one is listening.
The song resumes, quieter now, distant. A shadow moves near the edge of my vision.
Every instinct screams at me. Looking at it makes it real.
My breath is shallow. My heart slams against my ribs.
My body freezes on instinct like prey going still, hoping invisibility might save it.
The door creaks open. A thin line of light cuts across the concrete floor and stops right at my feet. I squeeze my eyes shut.
The song stutters. Something is wrong. Not just bad.
Not just scary. Wrong in a way that sinks into my bones and refuses to leave.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t exist in this place.
Only waiting. Only knowing. Knowing that I’m not supposed to scream.
Knowing that I’m supposed to be quiet. Knowing that this place will follow me, even if I forget it.
The light disappears. The song finally stops.
And the silence that follows is so much worse.
A couple of days later…
My eyes fly open to the dark ceiling. Familiar room.
Safe bed. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.
My shirt is soaked with sweat, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls.
For a long moment, I can’t move. Can’t separate what’s now from what was then.
The lullaby is gone, but the feeling remains—lingering under my skin like a bruise.
I don’t remember everything. Just enough to see the basement was never a dream.
Sterling sleeps beside me, solid and unmoving, a silent rock in the darkness.
I slip out of bed without a word, the floor cold against my bare feet, and follow the quiet pull toward the guest room.
Lila is already awake, curled on her side, scrolling through her phone like sleep is something that doesn’t exist. “Hey,” I whisper.
I fall onto the bed beside her. The tension I’ve been carrying since the nightmare finally cracked.
“Uh oh,” Lila murmurs, locking her phone and turning toward me.
“I know that look. Spit it out.” She wraps the blanket around us both and pulls me in close, the motion smooth and instinctive—muscle memory from years of midnight confessions and bad nights.
I let myself sink into her, exhaling for what feels like the first time since the nightmare.
“I think… I remembered something,” I say carefully, my voice barely above a whisper.
Lila doesn’t push. She never does. She just nods once, slow and steady. “Do you want to talk…or do you want to breathe?”
I close my eyes and press my forehead to her shoulder. “Can I just exist for a minute?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” she says instantly, no hesitation. “You can do that here.” We stay like that for a while, the house is quiet around us. Dawn is still a rumor behind the windows. Whatever came back to me doesn’t have words yet. But I know one thing for sure: I wasn’t alone down there.
I pull back just enough to look at her, my voice low. “You can’t tell him.”
Lila doesn’t hesitate. Not even a blink. “Okay.”
“I don’t even know what it means yet,” I add softly. “I don’t have words. Just… pieces.”
“That’s fine,” she says gently, pulling me closer. “The pieces are still yours.”
I let out a shaky breath and nod, my hands twisting tightly into the blanket. “If I say it out loud too soon…it’ll turn real.”
Lila bumps her forehead gently against mine. “It already is,” she whispers. “Saying it just makes it louder.”
I huff a weak laugh. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
“Years of practice keeping you alive,” she giggles softly. “I’ve got range.” Silence settles again. Not awkward. Just guarded. The kind that holds rather than presses. “Did it feel bad?” she asks finally.
“It felt…old.” Lila’s arm tightens around me as the words come out.
I rest my head back on her shoulder, eyes drifting shut. The house creaks somewhere down the hall. Sterling shifts in his sleep, unaware. For now, it stays here—between the girl who knows how to hold secrets without letting them rot.
We don’t go back to sleep. Instead, we stay wrapped in the blanket. Whatever came loose in my head tucks itself in a quiet corner, not gone, but content. Eventually, Lila nudges my knee with hers. “If we stay here too long, Cam’s going to burn something.” That earns a weak smile from me.
We slide out of bed together and move quietly down the hall, still respecting the hush of the morning as dawn creeps in through the windows.
The kitchen is already awake. Cam stands at the stove, hair a mess, jaw tight, flipping something aggressively in a pan.
Sterling leans against the counter with a mug in his hand, watching him like this is prime entertainment instead of breakfast. “Here we are,” Lila announces brightly. “Alive. Functioning…mostly.”
I grab a mug and pour myself coffee without asking. No one comments. The silence feels intentional. Sterling’s eyes flick to me—quick and searching—but he doesn’t say anything. “Sleep help?” he asks lightly.
I shrug, staring into my coffee. “Didn’t sleep. But I feel,” I pause, searching for the right word, “steadier.”
Cam snorts from the stove. “That’s not how science works.”
“Shut up,” Lila says immediately, shooting Cam a look. “She’s doing great.”
I lean against the counter, letting the warmth from the mug seep into my hands, grounding me in the present. The house hums softly around us. Normal sounds. Normal chaos. For now, that’s enough. Whatever I remembered can wait. Breakfast comes first.
Cam slides a plate onto the counter with more force than necessary. Eggs, slightly burnt toast, and something that might have once been bacon. “If anyone complains,” he says flatly, “you’re on dish duty for a week.”
Lila squints at the plate, tilting her head. “Is this… breakfast or a cry for help?”
“It’s protein,” Cam deadpans, sliding the plate closer. “And survival.”