Chapter Six – The Past That Won't Let Go
577 Words
Lina stayed put.
She didn't peek out the window, check the shadows, turn on the porch light, or grab any flashlight or phone.
She just sat there, hands shaking, listening to her heart pound like crazy.
Whatever had been watching was gone.
She could feel it.
The house wasn’t heavy anymore. It wasn't buzzing. It was empty.
But she wasn’t.
Something inside of her woke up.
Something old.
She slept on the couch that night, wrapped in two blankets and a sweater that didn’t smell like home. Every little creak of the house sounded so loud. At one point, she heard light footsteps above her - in the attic.
But she didn’t go up there.
She just whispered, “Not yet,” like a prayer to herself.
And the sound stopped.
The next day, Moira felt too bright.
The whole town seemed loud - the ocean, the gulls, and the cars all sounded like static.
Everything normal was annoying.
She sat outside Café Duarte with a sketchpad, but the page stayed blank. Inês brought her a pastry and didn’t ask questions, which Lina really appreciated.
But when Adrian sat down across from her like he'd been waiting, Lina tensed.
He didn’t smile.
Neither did she.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it real.”
He leaned in. “Are you scared that I’m real?”
“No,” she whispered. “That *we* are.”
Adrian looked down at the table, then back at her. “I didn’t come to force you, Lina. I just thought you deserved the truth.”
She shook her head. “What truth? That I’m some reincarnated soulmate and you’re…my old boyfriend?”
He looked annoyed. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you aren’t denying it.”
“I told you, he spoke softly. You’ve lived before. You’ve known me before.”
“Prove it.”
He waited a second.
Then: “Your middle name is Amaris. You don’t use it, but you write it in books. You twist your rings when you lie. You slept with the window open, even in winter, because you liked the cold.”
Lina stared.
Adrian’s eyes met hers. “And when you really laugh, you hiccup.”
Silence.
“I never told anyone that,” she said.
“You didn’t have to,” he replied.
They walked the cliffs, not talking. The silence felt like a bridge. When she spoke, her voice was quieter. More open.
“How long have you known?” she asked.
“That you were back?” Adrian looked at her. “Since the first night I heard your heartbeat in the rain.”
“And what are you?”
He looked at the sea.
“I thought I was just a man cursed to remember, he said. But I’m not human anymore. I don’t sleep or age. I don’t belong.”
“And you drink blood?” she asked.
He nodded.
“But only what I need, he said. Only what’s offered. I don’t hurt people.”
“Have you ever?”
His silence answered.
When she got home, the painting had changed.
The mist around the figure had thinned, showing a second person beside him.
Her.
Not done yet, but there.
There were new brushstrokes. Colors she didn’t have were dry on the canvas.
And in the corner, written lightly:
Do not forget me again.
- Writer
