Buried Truths And Shattered Dreams

Alessia jolted awake, her scream cutting through the oppressive silence of the room like a jagged knife. The room was still and dark, the air thick with the remnants of her fear. Her body shook violently, hands fisting in the soft fabric of her duvet as if she were grasping onto reality itself. Her breathing was shallow, erratic, as if she couldn't quite catch her breath. Her wide, terrified eyes darted around, searching the shadows for something she couldn't name but felt looming around her.

She was lost between the fog of her dream and the waking world, heart pounding, pulse thundering in her ears.

The scream shattered the quiet of the night, instantly pulling Alexander from his restless sleep in the next room. The sound sent a chill down his spine, and he bolted upright, heart in his throat. Without thinking, he rushed toward her, driven by a primal need to protect her. His mind raced with fear, but he forced himself to focus, reaching her side within seconds.

As he burst into the room, his eyes found her, crumpled on the bed, her small body shaking with sobs. She clutched her duvet so tightly it had twisted in her hands, wrinkling around her grip. The sight of her like this—so broken, so frightened—tore at something deep inside him. He felt a familiar helplessness wash over him, a sensation that had haunted him ever since the accident.

"Alessia," he called softly, approaching her with cautious steps, as if sudden movement might startle her further. "I'm here. It's okay. I'm here."

Without waiting for a response, Alexander knelt beside her bed, gathering her into his arms with the practiced tenderness of someone who had done this far too many times. His embrace was gentle but firm, an anchor in the turbulent sea of her panic. He could feel her shaking, her sobs muffled against his chest, and all he could do was hold her closer.

For a moment, neither spoke. Alexander rocked her slowly, whispering reassurances into her ear, his voice a quiet hum meant to calm the storm raging inside her.

"It's alright," he murmured, his lips brushing against her hair. "You're safe. It was just a dream."

But Alessia wasn't calming down. She was shaking harder now, her sobs growing louder. His words seemed powerless against the depth of her fear. When she finally spoke, her voice was broken, trembling, barely more than a whisper.

"They're dead, Alex. I saw them… Our parents. I saw the crash. They… they didn't make it." She choked on the words, as if saying them aloud made them more real, more terrifying.

Alexander's heart stopped. The room seemed to close in around him, the weight of her words crushing him from all sides. He had prepared himself for this moment, the day when Alessia's memory might come flooding back in a rush of painful clarity, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. For months, he had been waiting, wondering if she would ever remember. And now she had. Not all of it, but enough.

His heart twisted painfully in his chest, a mixture of sorrow and relief. He wanted to be happy that she was remembering, that her mind was healing, but the cost was so unbearably high. The truth she had forgotten was more than she could handle, more than either of them could.

He swallowed, his throat tight. He had told her a lie to protect her, to shield her from the unbearable grief he had been carrying alone. But now, as he held her in his arms, listening to her sobs, he wondered if he had done the right thing. Was it better to live in ignorance, or to face the ugly truth head-on?

Alexander pulled back just enough to look at her. Her tear-streaked face was twisted in anguish, eyes pleading with him for answers he didn't want to give. He could see the confusion, the desperation for him to tell her it wasn't real, that it had all just been a nightmare. But deep down, she knew. He could see it in her eyes.

And what was he supposed to say to that?

Every muscle in his body tensed as he fought the urge to break down. He had spent months being strong for her, pretending everything was okay, even when it wasn't. The pressure of it all weighed on him like a suffocating blanket, but he couldn't let it slip now. Not when she needed him the most.

"You're safe," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of her sobs. "It was just a dream. I promise. You're safe."

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed it down. He couldn't tell her the truth—not now, not when she was already so fragile. The truth would break her, and he couldn't bear to see her shatter.

He gently guided her back onto the pillows, tucking the duvet around her trembling body. His hands were careful, precise, as if each movement could keep her grounded in the present. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch soft, almost reverent.

"You're okay now. Try to sleep," he murmured, his heart aching as he watched her eyes flutter closed, her breathing still shaky but slowing.

For a moment, Alexander simply sat there, staring at her as she teetered on the edge of sleep. He didn't move, didn't speak. His thoughts were a tangled mess of guilt, fear, and love. He had spent so long lying to protect her, but he couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could keep it up. The lie had been easy when she couldn't remember, but now…

Now it felt like the walls were closing in, like the truth was clawing its way to the surface, and no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't be able to stop it.

As Alessia's breathing evened out, her sobs quieting into the soft rhythm of sleep, Alexander leaned back against the headboard, exhaustion washing over him. He hadn't realized he was crying until he felt the wetness on his cheeks, but he made no effort to wipe the tears away. They fell silently, unnoticed, as he stared up at the ceiling, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he couldn't say.

He glanced at his sister, her face peaceful now in the dim light. The contrast between her sleeping form and the terror that had gripped her moments ago was stark, almost painful. How could she look so calm, so innocent, when everything was falling apart?

His throat tightened as he began to hum softly, the familiar lullaby filling the quiet space between them. It was the same lullaby their mother used to sing, the one that had always made everything better when they were children. It was a fragile connection to a time when life was simpler, when their parents were still alive and the world hadn't yet been torn apart by tragedy.

As he sang, he watched her drift deeper into sleep, her features softening, the tension in her body slowly unwinding. His voice wavered, but he kept going, determined to offer her some small comfort, even if it was built on a lie.

When the song finally ended, Alexander sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts. He had no answers, no solutions. All he had was the knowledge that tomorrow would come, and with it, the weight of the truth he was still trying to outrun.

But for now, Alessia slept. And for now, that was enough.

Reginald's bulletproof car cut through the golden haze of the early morning light, its sleek black surface gleaming as it glided through the city's wide streets. The sun was rising in the distance, casting long shadows across the gleaming skyscrapers and the still, sleepy roads. From within the heavily tinted windows of the car, the world outside seemed distant and detached, like a scene playing out on a movie screen. The interior of the vehicle was insulated from the city's bustle, quiet and still, though the tension between the two men inside could be felt, heavy and palpable.

In the front seat, Draco gripped the steering wheel with the steady confidence of a man who had done this a thousand times before. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark aviator sunglasses, his expression unreadable. He was focused on the road ahead, maneuvering the powerful car through the near-empty streets with practiced ease. His jaw was set in a hard line, his posture relaxed but alert—every movement deliberate, calculated, as though he were ready for anything.

In the back seat, Reginald sat in contemplative silence, his sharp eyes fixated on the city skyline as it passed by in a blur of light and shadow. His posture was rigid, though his hands rested loosely on his lap. His suit was pristine, as always, and his appearance impeccable. Despite the calm exterior, there was something tightly coiled beneath the surface, something simmering. He hadn't spoken much since they'd gotten into the car, his mind clearly elsewhere, but when he finally did speak, his voice was cold and cutting, devoid of any pleasantries.

"Tell me again," Reginald said, not turning his gaze from the window. "How well did you dispose of the body?"

Draco didn't flinch. His grip on the wheel remained steady, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. "It's done. Clean. No traces, no witnesses," he replied evenly, his voice as calm and measured as ever. "I took care of it personally. No one's going to find a thing."

Reginald's lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, a cold and cruel thing. He nodded, seemingly satisfied with Draco's response. The two men shared an unspoken understanding—this was the nature of their business, a world where loose ends were not tolerated, where perfection was the expectation.

Just as Reginald was about to speak again, perhaps to give further instructions, there was a sudden shift in the air. The distant roar of an engine grew louder, and before either man could react, a massive truck came barreling toward them, swerving violently as if out of control. Time seemed to slow as the truck veered into their lane, a metal behemoth on a collision course.

Draco barely had time to curse under his breath before the truck slammed into the side of their car with a force that felt like an earthquake. The world exploded into chaos. The impact sent Reginald's bulletproof car skidding across the road, the screech of metal against metal deafening. For a heart-stopping moment, the car hung in the air, weightless, before flipping over the guardrail and plummeting toward the river below.

The water rose up to meet them with a bone-jarring crash, swallowing the car in an explosion of spray and foam. The bulletproof windows shattered under the pressure as the river's icy grip tightened around the vehicle, pulling it down into its murky depths.

Hours later, as the evening cast long shadows over the city, the riverbank was swarmed with emergency personnel. The flashing red and blue lights of police cars and ambulances reflected off the dark, still water as officers and medics moved in a choreographed flurry of activity. The wrecked remains of the once-impenetrable car lay partially submerged, twisted and mangled beyond recognition. Water dripped from the crumpled metal, pooling on the ground as the recovery teams worked to extract it from the river.

On the muddy bank, under the shadow of the bridge, a lone figure lay covered by a white sheet, the stark fabric soaked through from the river's embrace. A medic knelt beside the body, his face grim as he completed his work, silently marking another life lost to the crash. The sheet clung to the contours of the body beneath, giving shape to what had once been a living, breathing person—a stark reminder of the brutality of the morning's events.

Further downstream, the remains of the car were finally pulled from the water, its once-luxurious interior now a ruined mess of shattered glass, twisted steel, and river mud. The crane whined under the weight as it lifted the vehicle from the riverbed, water cascading from its ruined frame. Investigators stood by, their faces dark with the knowledge that this was no ordinary crash. There was more to this scene, more to this story.

The reporters arrived soon after, their vans parked in a haphazard line along the edge of the scene. Cameras flashed as journalists pushed through the throng of officers, microphones in hand, hungry for any scrap of information. They descended like vultures, snapping photos of the wreckage and the body, clamoring for answers.

A harried officer finally stepped forward to address the crowd, his uniform rumpled from a long day's work. He raised a hand to quiet the barrage of questions, his voice tired but authoritative.

"The vehicle involved in the crash earlier this morning was found in the river. No survivors have been recovered," the officer said, his words clipped and professional. "We're still investigating the cause of the crash, but at this time, we believe the vehicle was struck by a large truck. The driver of the truck fled the scene and is currently at large."

The reporters buzzed with more questions, their voices overlapping as they pressed for more details. "Was this an accident? Or something more? Were the victims identified?"

The officer's expression darkened slightly, but he kept his tone neutral. "We're still working on identifying the victims. We'll release more information once we've confirmed the details."

In the distance, the car's twisted frame continued to drip water onto the muddy ground as investigators combed through the wreckage, searching for any additional bodies. The riverbank had become a scene of tragedy, a place where lives had been lost and stories had ended.

Miles away, in the quiet of a small, dimly lit living room, Alexander sat frozen in his chair, staring blankly at the television screen. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock as the news anchor recounted the details of the crash. The footage from the scene played in a continuous loop: the wrecked car being dragged from the river, the flashing lights of police cars, the covered body lying on the bank. It was like a nightmare unfolding in real-time, and Alexander couldn't tear his eyes away.

His mind raced, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing, of what it all meant. Reginald. The name echoed in his thoughts like a drumbeat, relentless and suffocating. Could it really be him? Could this be how it ended? Alexander felt a hollow ache in his chest, a creeping dread that threatened to consume him.

The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the television. The faint light from the screen flickered, casting eerie shadows across the walls. Alexander's breath came in shallow bursts, his pulse racing as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

The sound of footsteps broke through the stillness. Alessia appeared in the doorway, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern as she stepped into the room. She glanced at the television, her brow furrowing as she took in the images of the crash, of the wreckage, of the chaos playing out on the screen.

"Who is that?" she asked softly, her voice hesitant, as though she wasn't sure she wanted the answer.

Alexander's head turned slowly to face her, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made the air between them feel thick and suffocating. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The noise from the television faded into the background, and all that remained was the heavy silence that stretched between them.

Alexander couldn't bring himself to speak. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched, the slight tremor in his hands—all of it spoke louder than words ever could.

Alessia's gaze flickered from her brother to the television and back again. The confusion in her expression deepened, but there was something else there now too—something darker, more fearful. The truth was beginning to settle over her, creeping in around the edges, and it chilled her to the bone.

"Reginald?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if saying the name aloud would make it real, would make the nightmare in front of her undeniable.

Alexander swallowed hard, his throat tight, his heart heavy. He looked away, his eyes falling to the floor, unable to meet her gaze any longer.

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