Page 49 of All the Things We Buried

He knew.

They had found me. And now they knew about her too.

“Fuck,” I said, punching the doorframe.

They knew now.

They knew where I lived. And soon they would know about Lenore. They would want to take her. They would ruin the only real thing I had left in this fake world.

And I couldn’t let that happen.

I couldn’t let it happen to us.

I ran back up to the attic. Slammed the door shut behind me.

Vivian was gone.

I tried to grab what clothes I could, ready to run, but the attic lights flickered again. The air turned colder.

In the corner sat a blonde girl with bright blue eyes. She watched me. Then she whispered,

“You will hurt her if you leave.”

“I have to protect her,” I said.

I knew she was a ghost. One of the many that haunted me. But she was the only one who ever brought me any peace.

“You can protect her if you stay, too,” she said.

“They’ll find out about her,” I said. “I have to protect her before they do.”

“You’re a dummy,” she said as she stood. “You’re going to lose the only real thing in your life.”

“Maybe I deserve to,” I said, picking up the plastic tank with Nagi inside.

“Maybe you do,” she said, walking toward the mirror. “But she doesn’t.”

She touched the glass with her fingertips.

“Love never dies,” she said. “It haunts.”

And just as I blinked, she disappeared.

“Fuck” I punched the air before I sat down on the bed. “Fuck.”

The sky bled a soft gray through her window, and I slipped inside before everyone could see me. She was still asleep. I took the chair from beside her closet and sat down like I had done it a thousand times in my head, but never for real, never this close, not like this.

I just looked.

Even wounded, she looked like poetry. Broken in the way old songs make you feel something you can’t name. And fuck, I felt it all. Every beat of her heart was like notes I had no right to hear. Every breath like a confession I never deserved.

I told myself I wouldn’t come back here. That last time had to be the last.

But here I was, again. Always. Obsession is cruel like that. It doesn’t ask permission. It moves in and waits.

I didn’t touch her.

God, I wanted to. Just her hand. Just to remind myself that she was real and not some fever dream I kept replaying in the back of my skull.