The Shed Where Memory Cuts

Rain fell in soft curtains, a gray veil threading through the air, soaking the grass beneath me. I lay there, Raisa cradled against my chest, her weight a quiet anchor in the storm. The hatch we'd climbed through clanged shut behind us, its rusted surface swallowed by the earth, as if it had never been. The water's roar faded, muffled now, a distant memory beneath the patter of rain and the faint rustle of wind. I breathed—sharp, ragged—the scent of wet soil and pine flooding my lungs, real and vast after the cage below.

Her hand rested in mine, fingers curled, still cold but holding on. I turned to her, brushing the wet hair from her face, searching those closed eyes, that pale scar above her brow. "Raisa," I whispered, my voice dissolving into the rain. Her chest—did it rise? I pressed my hand there, trembling, but the rain blurred everything—her breath, my hope. She was here, solid, but silent, a riddle I couldn't solve. I held her tighter, shielding her from the downpour, and looked up.

The world stretched gray and endless, a landscape of shadow and mist. Grass rolled out in uneven waves, dotted with gnarled trees, their branches clawing at the sky. Beyond, a river glinted—dark, restless—its murmur threading through the rain, familiar yet wrong. The river from my memories? I couldn't tell. The air carried a weight, a stillness beneath the storm, as if the earth held its breath. No birds sang, no life stirred—just us, alone in this expanse.

I stood, lifting Raisa with me, her chains clinking faintly, a sound swallowed by the wind. My legs shook, exhaustion sinking deep, but I moved, one step, then another, grass bending under my feet. Where were we? The tunnel had led here, but this—this wasn't escape. It was something else, a stage set in fog, waiting for its players. I scanned the horizon, the mist curling like smoke, and saw it—a shape, low and broken, half-hidden by the trees.

A shed. Wooden, its roof sagging, boards warped and peeling. My stomach twisted, a memory clawing up—rain, her cries, a door slamming shut. I'd locked her in a shed, hadn't I? By the river, under a storm like this. I stopped, Raisa's weight pulling at me, and stared. Was this it? The place I'd left her? My breath hitched, the necklace in my pocket pressing against my thigh, her heart pendant a silent judge.

I carried her closer, the shed looming through the mist, its door ajar, swaying in the wind. The wood was scarred—scratches, frantic, like the ones on the door below. My heart raced, a drum against my ribs. I stepped inside, the air thick with rot and damp, the floor strewn with leaves and broken glass. A single window, cracked, let in the gray light, and beneath it—a table, small, its surface stained dark. Blood? Water? I couldn't tell.

I set Raisa down, leaning her against the wall, her head lolling, her chained hands resting in her lap. "Wait here," I said, though she didn't stir. I turned to the table, my fingers brushing its edge, and saw it—a knife, rusted, its blade dulled but sharp enough. My hand froze. Blood flashed in my mind—my hands, her scream, the river's edge. Had I used this? On her? I recoiled, the knife clattering to the floor, its echo loud in the stillness.

The wind shifted, carrying a sound—soft, distant—a hum, like static. I spun, searching, and found it: a speaker, old and rusted, nailed to the wall, its wires frayed but alive. My blood ran cold. The voice—here too? It crackled, faint at first, then clear: "You brought her back." I flinched, my eyes darting to Raisa, then the speaker. "She's not—she's alive," I said, my voice trembling, a plea to the air.

The hum grew, the voice seeping out: "Is she?" My chest tightened. I knelt beside her, lifting her wrist, pressing for a pulse—there, faint, or imagined, a whisper beneath the rain. "She is," I insisted, louder now, my hands cupping her face. "I saved her." The speaker buzzed, silent for a moment, then: "Look again." My breath stopped. Look again? At her? The shed?

I turned, the room shifting in the gray light. The knife glinted on the floor, the table's stains darker now, spreading. The walls—scratched, yes, but words emerged, faint, carved into the wood: Don't forget me. Her handwriting, from the note below. My knees buckled. Had she been here, waiting, carving her plea? I stumbled to the window, peering out—the river, closer now, its current swift, carrying shadows I couldn't name.

A sound—soft, broken—came from behind. I spun, Raisa's eyes open, staring, green flecked with hazel, fixed on me. "Lukas," she rasped, her voice a thread through the storm. My heart leapt, tears blurring her face. "You're awake," I said, rushing to her, my hands on hers, the chain cold between us. Her lips parted, a breath, then: "Why did you leave me?"

The words pierced, a blade sharper than the knife. I froze, her gaze holding mine, clouded but alive—with pain, with memory. "I didn't—I didn't mean—" I stammered, the shed spinning, the river's murmur swelling. The speaker crackled again: "She remembers." And the rain fell harder, washing the world gray, leaving us trapped in its echo.Rain fell in soft curtains, a gray veil threading through the air, soaking the grass beneath me. I lay there, Raisa cradled against my chest, her weight a quiet anchor in the storm. The hatch we'd climbed through clanged shut behind us, its rusted surface swallowed by the earth, as if it had never been. The water's roar faded, muffled now, a distant memory beneath the patter of rain and the faint rustle of wind. I breathed—sharp, ragged—the scent of wet soil and pine flooding my lungs, real and vast after the cage below.

Her hand rested in mine, fingers curled, still cold but holding on. I turned to her, brushing the wet hair from her face, searching those closed eyes, that pale scar above her brow. "Raisa," I whispered, my voice dissolving into the rain. Her chest—did it rise? I pressed my hand there, trembling, but the rain blurred everything—her breath, my hope. She was here, solid, but silent, a riddle I couldn't solve. I held her tighter, shielding her from the downpour, and looked up.

The world stretched gray and endless, a landscape of shadow and mist. Grass rolled out in uneven waves, dotted with gnarled trees, their branches clawing at the sky. Beyond, a river glinted—dark, restless—its murmur threading through the rain, familiar yet wrong. The river from my memories? I couldn't tell. The air carried a weight, a stillness beneath the storm, as if the earth held its breath. No birds sang, no life stirred—just us, alone in this expanse.

I stood, lifting Raisa with me, her chains clinking faintly, a sound swallowed by the wind. My legs shook, exhaustion sinking deep, but I moved, one step, then another, grass bending under my feet. Where were we? The tunnel had led here, but this—this wasn't escape. It was something else, a stage set in fog, waiting for its players. I scanned the horizon, the mist curling like smoke, and saw it—a shape, low and broken, half-hidden by the trees.

A shed. Wooden, its roof sagging, boards warped and peeling. My stomach twisted, a memory clawing up—rain, her cries, a door slamming shut. I'd locked her in a shed, hadn't I? By the river, under a storm like this. I stopped, Raisa's weight pulling at me, and stared. Was this it? The place I'd left her? My breath hitched, the necklace in my pocket pressing against my thigh, her heart pendant a silent judge.

I carried her closer, the shed looming through the mist, its door ajar, swaying in the wind. The wood was scarred—scratches, frantic, like the ones on the door below. My heart raced, a drum against my ribs. I stepped inside, the air thick with rot and damp, the floor strewn with leaves and broken glass. A single window, cracked, let in the gray light, and beneath it—a table, small, its surface stained dark. Blood? Water? I couldn't tell.

I set Raisa down, leaning her against the wall, her head lolling, her chained hands resting in her lap. "Wait here," I said, though she didn't stir. I turned to the table, my fingers brushing its edge, and saw it—a knife, rusted, its blade dulled but sharp enough. My hand froze. Blood flashed in my mind—my hands, her scream, the river's edge. Had I used this? On her? I recoiled, the knife clattering to the floor, its echo loud in the stillness.

The wind shifted, carrying a sound—soft, distant—a hum, like static. I spun, searching, and found it: a speaker, old and rusted, nailed to the wall, its wires frayed but alive. My blood ran cold. The voice—here too? It crackled, faint at first, then clear: "You brought her back." I flinched, my eyes darting to Raisa, then the speaker. "She's not—she's alive," I said, my voice trembling, a plea to the air.

The hum grew, the voice seeping out: "Is she?" My chest tightened. I knelt beside her, lifting her wrist, pressing for a pulse—there, faint, or imagined, a whisper beneath the rain. "She is," I insisted, louder now, my hands cupping her face. "I saved her." The speaker buzzed, silent for a moment, then: "Look again." My breath stopped. Look again? At her? The shed?

I turned, the room shifting in the gray light. The knife glinted on the floor, the table's stains darker now, spreading. The walls—scratched, yes, but words emerged, faint, carved into the wood: Don't forget me. Her handwriting, from the note below. My knees buckled. Had she been here, waiting, carving her plea? I stumbled to the window, peering out—the river, closer now, its current swift, carrying shadows I couldn't name.

A sound—soft, broken—came from behind. I spun, Raisa's eyes open, staring, green flecked with hazel, fixed on me. "Lukas," she rasped, her voice a thread through the storm. My heart leapt, tears blurring her face. "You're awake," I said, rushing to her, my hands on hers, the chain cold between us. Her lips parted, a breath, then: "Why did you leave me?"

The words pierced, a blade sharper than the knife. I froze, her gaze holding mine, clouded but alive—with pain, with memory. "I didn't—I didn't mean—" I stammered, the shed spinning, the river's murmur swelling. The speaker crackled again: "She remembers." And the rain fell harder, washing the world gray, leaving us trapped in its echo.