Chapter 9 - A Past Itching To Be Found  

The wind howled as they soared through the night, slicing through the darkness like ghosts of the past. Their first stop? The school. The place where everything began.

Bastian landed first, his boots crunching against the gravel. Anastasia followed, her heart hammering with anticipation. Would this trigger something? Would the weight of memories finally break through the thick fog in his mind?

She led him to the lockers—the exact one where they'd met for the first time. He traced his fingers along the cold metal, his brows knitting together. Then they walked the hallways, their footsteps echoing eerily. The football field was next. The bleachers stood empty under the moonlight, but in her mind, they were packed with screaming students.

"You played here every Friday night," she whispered, watching him closely.

Bastian turned his gaze to the field. "I did?"

She nodded. "And you were the best."

A faint smirk. He liked the sound of that.

She gestured to the bleachers. "You stood right there when we were eighteen and told the whole school you loved me."

That made him freeze. His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head, but the way his fingers clenched into fists told her something was stirring deep inside him. Just not enough. Not yet.

They sat in silence for a while, her voice filling the empty stadium as she recounted every detail of their high school days—his games, their late-night study sessions, how he used to sneak her out of class just to buy her favorite milkshake from the corner store.

Bastian listened, soaking it all in, but the memories remained elusive. The familiarity was there, like déjà vu, but no clear flashes. Nothing like what happened on the Drake.

She exhaled sharply. "Alright. Time for the big risk."

They were heading to his childhood home.

The house still looked the same—warm, welcoming. His home. But for Bastian, standing outside, hidden in the bushes, it felt like staring at a stranger's life.

Through the window, his father lounged on the couch, watching TV. His mother stood in the kitchen, washing dishes, humming a tune. A tune that rang in his head like an echo of something forgotten.

Anastasia felt his body tense beside her. "Bass?" she whispered.

His eyes never left the scene in front of him. "What?"

She hesitated. "Are you… remembering something?"

He frowned. "I don't—"

She sucked in a breath. "You just shed a tear."

Bastian stiffened. He reached up, pressing his fingers against his cheek. She wasn't lying. A tear had slipped down, unnoticed.

And then it hit.

Like lightning splitting his skull, the pain came fast and hard. He crumpled to his knees, hands clawing at the earth as his head felt like it was about to explode.

Images—brief, scattered—flashed before him. His mother helping him with homework. His father teaching him to throw a football. The laughter, the warmth. And then—

The car.

The wreck.

His mother's scream.

Bastian choked on a gasp as the tears streamed uncontrollably. The memory of her running toward him, her face twisted in agony, was burned into his mind like a brand.

"Bastian!" Anastasia caught him before he collapsed completely, her arms holding him tightly. He trembled against her, gasping for air, his body betraying him as grief surged through him like a tidal wave.

"Sshh," she murmured, stroking his back. "I'm here. I've got you."

He clung to her without realizing it, his breathing ragged. And for the first time since he came back to Earth, he felt something solid. Something real.

Her.

She was here. Even when he didn't remember her. Even when he was lost.

After a long moment, he straightened, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

"Let's go."

"Bastian—"

"Let's go."

Staying here only made it worse. He had thought he wanted to remember—but this? This felt like torture. Why the hell had he come back if everything was just pain?

They soured for the sky just in time as his mother thought she sensed something and looked out the window in the place that there were standing only seconds earlier.

Bastian needed something good. Something that didn't shatter him from the inside out.

They soared above the city, the glow of streetlights below like golden veins in the dark. But then—a house. One among thousands, but somehow, it called to him.

He dived down without thinking. Anastasia followed, biting her lip to keep from grinning. He doesn't even realize it yet.

Bastian landed on the rooftop, his feet touching down lightly. A window stood in front of him, slightly ajar, like it was meant to be.

His hands moved on their own, pushing it open, stepping inside.

The moment he entered, something shifted.

A bedroom. A desk cluttered with books. A game console under the TV. Rock posters plastered on the walls. A single bed with black covers.

Familiarity hit him like a punch to the gut.

He moved forward slowly, scanning the room, eyes landing on the beanbags in front of the TV. He didn't think—he just acted, dropping into one as if his body remembered before his mind could.

Anastasia perched on the bed, watching him carefully, her lips twitching.

He knew this place.

The air felt thick, almost tangible, like memories were just out of reach.

Then—footsteps. Loud. Approaching fast.

The bedroom door burst open and two figures stormed in, faces sharp with suspicion.

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?"

Bastian was on his feet in an instant, instinct screaming at him to fight or flee.

The older man—tall, imposing—glared at them with fire in his eyes. Beside him, a woman with dark curls and a sharp gaze crossed her arms, waiting for an answer.

Bastian's chest tightened. He had no idea who they were.

But Anastasia?

She barely held back a grin.

Because she knew exactly who they were.

Billy's parents.