Page 94 of Fractured Devotion
My thumb brushes the corner of the page. I half expect the ink to smear, to prove it’s fresh. But it’s dry and seeped into the paper. As if it’s always been there, waiting for me to turn to this page.
I snap the journal shut and stand. My legs are still shaky, like my muscles are catching up to the panic in my blood. I can’t stay here. Not tonight. Not with ghosts.
I grab my keys again, my hand trembling only slightly this time, and slip out the door.
The street outside is empty. It’s hushed in that eerie, predatory way, unnervingly still for a city that never truly sleeps. I take the stairs two at a time. The urge to run builds in my chest, wild and stupid, but I don’t give in to it.
I make it to the car and start the engine. I don’t know where I’m going, but anywhere feels better than this.
The first few blocks are a blur. I drive with no destination, only motion, past shuttered storefronts and flickering traffic lights. The city feels different at night. Less alive and more watchful.
As I stop at a red light, my phone buzzes.
It’s a message.
Unknown Number:Do you remember who you were before Miramont?
My throat dries, and I don’t respond. I don’t even breathe.
The light turns green.
I hit the gas.
Another buzz comes.
Unknown Number:Celestia did.
I pull over, my tires screeching lightly against the curb. My hands are slick on the wheel when I check the message again. It’s still there. It’s real.
I look around, my heart pounding inside my chest. There’s no one, no headlights behind me, and no footsteps. But I know what this is.
This isn’t just surveillance.
It’s a reminder.
Someone knows, not just my name, and not just my fears.
Someone knows who Iused to be.
And they want me to remember.
Or they want to punish me for forgetting.
I drive straight to the clinic.
But I don’t go to the main building. I drive to the private lot in the back and enter through the side access panel, keying in the emergency override code.
The halls are dark. There are emergency lights only.
I move like I’m sleepwalking, but I know where I’m going.
I go three floors up to my backup apartment.
I reach the door and pause with my hand on the handle.
I don’t check for cameras. And I don’t check my phone.
I just step inside.
