Julia didn’t remember walking home. Her shoes were caked in mud. Her palms were scraped and red. Her breath was shallow and uneven. But somehow, she made it back. Her body was on autopilot while her mind raced ahead, a blur of questions and broken images.
The journal was still clutched in her coat pocket. That message still glowed on her phone screen where she had left it on the couch: You remember too much.
She locked her front door. Then she locked it again.
Inside, the silence felt different now. It no longer resembled peace. It felt like something was holding its breath just beyond the walls, waiting for her to let her guard down. She tossed the phone aside and sat at the kitchen table, placing the journal in front of her.
It was her handwriting. Her voice on the pages. Her memorie
