The things we bury
1049 Words
She woke up screaming
Not the loud, cinematic kind. Not the kind that echoes through hallways and brings people running.
This was smaller.
Raw.
Like her voice had to fight its way out of something buried deep inside her chest.
I was already there when her eyes snapped open.
Hospital room. Low light. Machines whispering in steady rhythms. The world reduced to antiseptic and survival.
Her hands trembled against the sheets, fingers clawing at nothing.
“Hey—hey,” I said, keeping my voice steady, low. “You’re safe.”
She didn’t hear me.
Or maybe she did, and the word safe meant nothing anymore.
Her eyes darted around the room, searching, panicked. Not for where she was.
For who might still be there.
“It’s okay,” I tried again. “You’re in the hospital. You made it.”
That got her attention.
Not comfort.
Attention.
Her gaze snapped to me, locking in with a kind of intensity that made something in my spine tighten.
“You…” she whispered.
Her voice was fragile, like glass thinking about breaking.
I leaned in slightly. “Yeah. I’m Detective Keller.”
Her breathing hitched.
Not relief.
Recognition.
“You came,” she said.
Two words.
Soft.
Certain.
Something cold slipped into my bloodstream.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Just a shaky breath, like she was deciding whether speaking was worth the cost.
“He said you would,” she finally managed.
The room seemed to shrink.
“Who?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Her eyes flickered, just for a second.
Not to me.
Past me.
Like she was seeing something that wasn’t there anymore.
“The one with the roses.”
Silence settled between us, heavy and suffocating.
I pulled a chair closer to the bed, sitting down slowly, careful not to break whatever fragile thread we had.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked gently.
Her fingers tightened in the sheets.
“He… he wasn’t what I expected.”
A strange thing to say about someone who ties you to a chair in a greenhouse.
“What did you expect?” I asked.
Her mouth twitched, almost a laugh. Almost.
“Someone angry.”
“And he wasn’t?”
She shook her head, slow.
“No. He was… calm.”
Of course he was.
“He talked,” she continued. “The whole time. Not shouting. Not threatening. Just… talking.”
“About what?”
Her eyes drifted again, unfocused now, pulled back into memory whether she wanted it or not.
“About them,” she said. “The others.”
My pulse picked up.
“What did he say?”
“That they were already gone,” she whispered. “Long before he found them.”
I leaned forward, every nerve alert.
“Did he say why he chose you?”
That’s when her expression changed.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Fear… shifting into something else.
Something heavier.
“He said…” she hesitated, swallowing hard. “He said I was different.”
“How?”
Her eyes filled, not with panic this time.
With something closer to guilt.
“He said I still had time.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Ripples spreading.
Unsettling everything.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
But even as I said it, I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.
Her gaze dropped to her hands.
“I think…” she whispered, voice breaking now, “I think he was testing me.”
Testing.
Not punishing.
Not killing.
Testing.
“For what?” I pressed.
She shook her head, tears slipping free now.
“I don’t know. I don’t know… I don’t know…”
Her voice collapsed into itself, and I could see it—the moment she reached her limit.
I leaned back, exhaling slowly.
“That’s enough for now,” I said. “You’re safe. You don’t have to think about it anymore tonight.”
A lie.
But a necessary one.
As I stood to leave, her hand shot out, grabbing my wrist.
Stronger than I expected.
Desperate.
“He asked about you.”
Everything in me stilled.
“What did he ask?”
Her grip tightened.
“He wanted to know if you remembered.”
The world tilted.
Just slightly.
But enough.
“Remembered what?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
Careful.
Controlled.
She looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw it clearly.
Not just fear.
Not just trauma.
Recognition.
“You don’t know, do you?” she whispered.
I pulled my hand free, gently.
But my mind was already moving.
Spinning.
Digging.
Because somewhere, deep beneath years of cases and paperwork and carefully stacked memories…
Something had just shifted.
That night, I went home.
Not to sleep.
To dig.
The box was exactly where I left it.
Top shelf of the closet. Buried behind things I never used but couldn’t throw away. Old jackets. A broken lamp. A version of myself I didn’t visit anymore.
I pulled it down, setting it on the table.
Dust rose like a ghost being disturbed.
I stared at it for a long time.
Longer than I needed to.
Shorter than I wanted to.
Then I opened it.
Inside were pieces of a life I had carefully edited out.
Photographs.
Reports.
Clippings.
And one file.
Thicker than the rest.
Heavier.
I flipped it open.
And there it was.
A name I hadn’t said in years.
A case I had buried under everything else.
A mistake I had convinced myself was necessary.
A girl.
Ten years old.
Missing.
Never found.
Until now.
Tucked inside the file… was a photograph I didn’t remember taking.
Or maybe I did.
And just chose to forget.
A small hand.
Holding something.
Delicate.
Bright against the dark.
A red rose.
My chest tightened, breath catching somewhere between past and present.
“No…” I whispered.
But the word had no weight.
No power.
Because deep down…
I already knew.
This wasn’t the beginning of something new.
It was the continuation of something I had left unfinished.
And the killer?
They weren’t choosing me.
They were bringing me back.
- Writer
