Chapter 6 Nothing Stays Buried #3
I staggered back, gasping, the journal clutched tight. The bookshop snapped into focus, but my chest burned, and my throat felt raw.
What was that? What—
I flipped to the final page of the journal, heart racing. The handwriting was shakier here, more frantic:
They will come tomorrow. I see it clearly now. The visions do not lie; they never have. I will not run. There is nowhere to run that they will not find me. Let them call me a witch. I am more than they fear. I am what they tried to bury. I will rise again. I always do.
My hands trembled. The words blurred as tears pricked my eyes. I looked up. The shopkeep was watching me from her place behind the counter, amber eyes steady and knowing.
“What is this?” My voice came out hoarse.
“An echo,” she said simply. “Left behind for the you that needed it.”
“‘For the me that needed it?’” I asked, heart thudding. “You mean, this is mine?”
“It was once.” She tilted her head, studying me. “You’ve carried many names, child. Worn many faces. That journal is proof that some things survive even fire.”
Panic flooded through me. No. No, she can’t know that. She can’t. My breath came faster, shallow and tight. I took a step back, clutching the journal like a shield. What the hell is happening right now?
I stared at her, then down at the journal in my hands.
A woman who wrote like me. A woman who knew she would die, who promised she would return.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“Not yet,” the shopkeeper agreed. “But you will when you’re ready.”
My legs felt locked in place, my body refusing to obey. The shopkeeper’s gaze was too calm, too knowing, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been waiting for me. That this entire encounter had been orchestrated.
Before I could ask what that meant, a gust of wind howled against the glass, loud enough to rattle the windows.
I turned toward the sound and froze.
Across the street, beneath a broken streetlamp, a figure stood in the rain. Hooded and unmoving.
Watching.
My voice cracked into a whisper. “Do you see that?”
But when I looked back, the shopkeeper had already retreated into the shadows of the shop, disappearing between the shelves like smoke.
“Take the book,” her voice drifted from deeper in the shop. “But don’t linger. Not when it’s watching.”
Fear rose in my gut as I shoved the journal under my coat and bolted for the door.
The bell chimed as I stumbled back out into the rain. The figure was gone, but the feeling wasn’t.
I stood there on the rain-slicked sidewalk, chest heaving, eyes scanning the street. No one. Just empty pavement and distant thunder.
But I could still feel it.
I hugged the journal tighter and started walking quickly, my shoes splashing through puddles, rain plastering my hair to my face. But with every glance over my shoulder, the certainty was undeniable—I was being followed.
I turned a corner, breath coming in sharp gasps. My lungs protested with every inhale, that familiar tightness creeping in.
Slow down. You can’t afford an asthma attack. Not right now.
But slowing down felt impossible when every instinct screamed to run. I risked another glance back.
Nothing.
You’re being paranoid. There’s nothing—
A footfall. Not mine.
I stopped.
The sound stopped.
My pulse hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. I turned, scanning the rain-blurred street.
A figure stood on the opposite sidewalk, beneath a broken streetlamp. Not moving toward me or moving away.
The air left my lungs in a rush.
I turned and ran.
My feet pounded against wet pavement. Rain lashed at my face as I pushed forward, lungs burning with each desperate breath.
Just get home. Just get—
I rounded a corner and collided with a solid chest.
Strong hands caught my arms before I could fall, steadying me. I stumbled back, blinking through rain and panic.
“Ms. Blumenthal?”
The familiar voice cut through everything.
I looked up. Professor Ward stood in front of me, rain dripping from his dark hair, worry creasing his brow. Three German shepherds moved around him; sleek shadows with bright eyes, leashes tangled in his gloved hand. Relief hit so hard it stole what little breath I had left.
“I—” I tried, but it came out as a wheeze. I doubled over, coughing, fumbling in my bag for my inhaler.
My hands shook so badly I almost dropped it. He knelt beside me, one hand steadying my arm, the other gently guiding the inhaler into my grip. His voice stayed calm, but edged with alarm.
“Breathe slowly. That’s it.”
I took two puffs. My chest eased, fraction by fraction. Finally, I straightened, blinking up at him through damp lashes and rain.
“You’re shaking,” he stated, taking in my soaked clothes, my trembling hands, and the journal I still clutched against my chest. “What happened?”
“Someone—” My voice broke. “Someone was following me or watching me. I don’t—I don’t know.”
His expression darkened. He didn’t say I was being paranoid, didn’t question me, or dismiss it.
He just looked past me, scanning the street with a stillness that reminded me of a soldier, and said quietly, “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”
The dogs moved closer, flanking us like silent guardians.