Chapter 2

I sat down, exhaling slowly, and ran my hand over the floorboards. They were old and tired. The kind that had seen years of footfall, arguments, dropped plates, and the occasional spilled drink no one ever truly cleaned up right. I pressed my fingers against the edge and gave it a tug, expecting resistance, maybe even a fight. But it came off easily. Too easily. Like it had been waiting for someone to come along and lift the curtain on whatever was hidden underneath. I thought I'd have to get my tools out for this.

The space below was deeper than I thought. Darker, too. A crawlspace thick with dust, the kind that clings to your skin, settles in your lungs, makes you wonder what else has been festering down there for God knows how long. Cobwebs stretched across the wood, untouched, undisturbed. Nobody had been down here in years.

I reached in, my fingers groping through the void, brushing against the splinters and crumbling debris. And then—something smooth. Solid. Not wood. Not metal. Something different.

I pulled it out, heavier than I'd expected. A book. But, not just any book. This thing had presence. Deep crimson, the cover rich and worn, like the stain of hard candy dissolving on your tongue—thick, vivid, lingering long after the sweetness is gone. The edges frayed just enough to show its age, but the binding—now that was something else. Handmade, precise, the kind of craftsmanship you don't see anymore. Someone cared about this book. Someone needed it to last.

I turned it over in my hands, feeling the weight of history pressing against my palms. The house was silent, waiting like it knew what came next.

I opened it.

Dust erupted from between the pages like a breath held for too long. A fine, ghostly mist curled in the air, catching the dim light in swirling patterns. My sinuses reacted instantly—burning, itching—before I could even think, I was sneezing hard, one after the other.

The dust then settled. My vision cleared.

And there it was.

A name.

Arthur Gallagher.

The room seemed to shrink around me. My hands tightened on the book.

Dad.

I never knew he kept a journal. Never pegged him as the type to write anything down, let alone keep something that important buried under the floor, a relic from a life he wanted to forget.

I swallowed, my throat dry. The gravity of it, of everything, settled in my lap like an anchor. I should've hesitated. I should've taken a moment to breathe. But no, not now.

I rushed to the stove, the journal clutched tightly in one hand and set the kettle on. As the water boiled, I poured it over the tea leaves, only to hear a sharp clink. The cup cracked slightly, and tea began leaking out. I watched as the crack crept along the ceramic like a fault line splitting open the earth. The dark liquid seeped out in slow, measured rivulets, pooling on the table in a way that felt almost intentional like the house itself was bleeding like it was trying to tell me something.

I grabbed another cup, an old one, slightly chipped but still intact, and poured the remains of the tea into it, careful this time. The spill glistened under the dim kitchen light, a tiny, inconsequential mess in the grand scheme of things. But that's how it always starts. The little things. A leaky tap. A door that won't stay shut. A cracked cup. A misplaced memory.

A name on the cover of a book you didn't know existed.

I glanced at the journal sitting on the table, its crimson cover like a wound against the faded wood. My fingers twitched. A deep breath, steady. The house exhaled around me, the floorboards settling with a groan, the walls shifting like something unseen had just passed through.

I took the cup and the journal, then sat down. This felt like a privilege—an intimate glimpse into my father's life. To me, it was equivalent to treasure, something I intended to guard and cherish for as long as I could.

Some things just refuse to stay buried.

February 21st, 2027

Out the window, the lawn sprawls out in a patchy green, the sunlight streaming in and warming my skin. I'm meant to be writing, and focusing, but the day's got this lazy, golden haze to it that makes it impossible to concentrate.

It's 11:02 a.m., and though it's winter, the sun is unusually bright. I can almost smell the earth, fresh and damp from the morning dew. Even with all this peace around me, that place still looms, like a shadow I can't outrun. It still haunts me.

I've spoken to numerous people, they say "Confronting your demons is the path to healing", but how can I be certain I've healed if I can't let go of the past?

I've tried to be in control, be in the moment. But each time I do, I hope for something new, something different.

But no matter how much I hope— it all comes back to the very beginning.

The never-ending loop of terror.

Even to this day, I can't sleep at night. It's not the fear of a monster under my bed or the damned 'boogeyman'. It's the silence, it's what hides in the stillness. When you know there's something, you can sense it but you can't see it. You can only feel its presence.

That's when "healing" seems beyond reach.

It's that sense of not knowing and constant unpredictability. People need answers, they need explanations, and some reason to make sense of things. But what if there is no reason? What if some things just happen, with no logic, no meaning? How do you move on from that? How do you let go of something that doesn't want to be let go of?

I still believe everything that happened to me was real. And I know—I know—that I went through things no child should ever have to endure. But maybe that's just how it was meant to be. Maybe some things aren't meant to be understood. Maybe they just are.

Sometime in April, 2011

It had been the first time I was unable to remember Ma's face. The little details like the crease on her forehead when she looks at me all angry or the wrinkles near her eyes when I'd make her laugh, they're all fading away now.

It's only been about a month since I last saw her but somehow it feels longer.

I don't know if I'll ever see her again.

I read an article once that said 'Skin regenerates every two months and with it, touch can be forgotten', I don't want to forget Ma's touch. The thought terrified me. I lived for the warmth of her hugs and the way her hair always smelled like rosemary.

I missed her, home—everything. Even the smallest things like reading the labels of the shampoo bottles when I'd take too long in the bathroom or the heat of the water fogging up the mirror. It all seemed too insignificant back then but now this is all I have to hold on to.

There's no bathroom here. Only a little bucket. I hate the smell of this place. I've never missed home this badly.

'Lunchtime', a warped voice flared through the speakers.

I knew what to expect. A dull white plate clattered down the slide and stopped at my feet. The same two pitiful slices of bread lay upon it—stale and drooping like saggy skin. On the contrary, a thick layer of jam was smeared across the bread. It was a bright red color against the muted tones of the bread. Yet, it did very little to hide the patchy mold creeping at its edges.

The feeling in my stomach was unmistakable, I was hungry. Unfortunately, in this case, survival left no room for disgust. I knew the sweetness of the jam wouldn't mask the taste of rot but it's not like I had another choice. As I crouched down to pick up the plate… I felt it.

Eyes.

Somewhere, I was being watched and studied, like a firefly trapped in a jar. I held onto the plate tightly, looking around the playground. This place was no better than prison.