Closer to the truth

It had been nearly an hour since the hooded figure disappeared. Again.

Ron's living room, dimly lit by a single lamp, felt heavier than it had minutes before — like the silence had grown teeth and was waiting for one of them to move. Samantha sat cross-legged on the floor, Ron's old notebook in her lap. Pages ripped from school books and the backs of receipts were scattered between them, a makeshift web of handwritten clues, drawn arrows, and underlined phrases.

Ron crouched beside her, chewing absently on the end of his pen. "Let's start from the beginning. First time you saw him."

Samantha stared at the floor for a long second. "It was late. I had insomnia — again. I got up, looked out my window and... he was there. Just standing under the streetlamp. Not moving, not saying anything. Like he was waiting for me to see him."

"And you didn't recognize him?"

"No," she whispered. "But it felt like I should've."

Ron scribbled a note, then circled something on a napkin.

She kept talking. "Then it got worse. I'd see him on the edge of crowds. Through windows. Reflections. Once, just standing across the school hallway, staring at me until I blinked."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "And he never said anything?"

"Not until the riverbank." Her voice dipped lower. "He told me I wasn't ready. That I'd remember when I was."

Ron leaned back on his heels. "And tonight, he says you are ready."

Samantha looked at him. "But ready for what? To remember what?"

That question hovered like a thick fog, clinging to everything.

Ron stood and began pacing. "Let's think. You've never seen him before a few weeks ago. He always vanishes. Never hurts you. Never touches you."

"He does make it feel like I'm freezing from the inside out," Sam muttered.

"Okay, fair." Ron pointed his pen like a sword. "But still. What if he's not trying to hurt you? What if he's... helping? In his weird, dramatic, annoying way?"

She tilted her head. "Helping me how, Ron?"

He stopped pacing, looking down at the scribbles. "I don't know. But maybe he's not haunting you. Maybe he's guiding you."

Samantha frowned. "Guiding me where? Or... to what?"

"To a memory," Ron said, eyes lighting up like he'd just connected two long-forgotten dots. "Something buried. Something someone didn't want you to know."

She paused, suddenly aware of a faint pressure behind her eyes. Like the ache of something trying to come forward — but not quite there.

"Okay," she said softly. "Let's say you're right. What kind of memory would need him to show up and unlock it?"

Ron met her gaze. "Something big."

They both fell quiet. The notebook in her lap now felt like a holy relic, something ancient and brittle and important.

Her fingers ran across a doodle she'd drawn — a pair of eyes half-hidden beneath a hood. She didn't even remember sketching them.

Then—

"You're asking the wrong questions."

The voice didn't come from either of them.

It sliced clean through the stillness, sharp and cold, but unmistakably female.

Ron jumped to his feet like he'd been electrocuted, instinctively moving in front of Sam.

At the edge of the hallway, near the shadows cast by the kitchen light, stood a girl. No older than seventeen, maybe. Tall. Dark braids pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. Her clothing was simple — black jeans, black boots, black jacket — but she wore it with a kind of sharp, practiced ease. Not dramatic like Mr. Hood, not ghostly. She looked real. Present.

Too present.

Her eyes were unreadable, but calculating — like she'd already sized up every exit, every object in the room, and every word that had been spoken before she arrived.

"Who the hell are you?" Ron demanded, standing firm.

The girl didn't flinch. "I'm the one who's here to stop you from wasting more time."

Samantha stood now, slowly. Her heart was pounding again — not from fear exactly, but confusion. A different kind of tension. "You know who he is?"

The girl turned to her. "I know what he is."

Samantha's breath caught in her throat. "Then tell me."

The girl took a few steps forward, not aggressively — just... confidently. Every move was controlled. Calculated.

"You've been circling the same dead-end," she said. "Looking for a name. For a label. A face. But the truth isn't about him."

Ron crossed his arms. "Okay, then what is it about?"

The girl's eyes flicked toward him. "It's about you. Both of you."

Samantha swallowed. "What does that mean?"

The girl tilted her head slightly, like she was considering how much to say. Then, with unnerving calm, she said, "There's a reason you're seeing him now. A reason your memories are breaking at the seams."

Samantha's head spun. "You're saying he's connected to my past?"

"No," the girl said. "I'm saying... he's part of it."

Ron looked like he was about to protest, but the girl cut him off with a raised hand. "Not yet. I'll explain. But first—"

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled something out. A folded slip of paper.

She handed it to Samantha.

Sam opened it. Her eyes widened. "What is this?"

"A map," the girl said. "Of the place your memories are buried."