Jason's voice cut through the silence, low and edged. "Go away, or else—"
The man didn't flinch. He took a step closer, calm despite the threat. "Please. My name is Job."
I froze.
Jason's arm dropped slightly, just enough for me to see the stranger's face. Something in the way he said his name made my chest tighten. My throat was dry, and when I finally found my voice, it came out as a whisper. "Job?"
The name settled like dust in my memory, and something old began to stir. My mother's soft and tired in the middle of the night, speaking in hushed tones. That name. She'd said it before. But I hadn't paid attention then. I was too young. Too distracted. Too innocent to understand.
Jason's voice pulled me back. "What did she say about him?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "Just... the name. It's a ghost from the past."
Jason's eyes shifted between Job and me. His grip on the gun didn't loosen, but something in his expression cracked—just slightly.
"We don't have time for this," he muttered. "What's your plan?"
Job stepped forward carefully and held out an envelope. "There's a place. A room. Secure. A private doctor. Your mother made sure you'd have access—if the time ever came."
Jason didn't move. His jaw tensed, eyes narrowing as if searching for a lie. The silence between them stretched.
A whisper in my gut grew louder than the fear in my chest.
I reached out, fingers trembling, and took the envelope.
Jason stayed still. His gaze held fast on Job—measuring him, decoding him. Then, slowly, with a controlled breath, he lowered the gun. His voice, when it came, was measured.
"All right," he said. "We'll go with you. But it's only because Janica's mother trusted you."
Job nodded, unbothered. "That's enough."
The envelope felt heavier than it should have—aged, maybe, or just burdened with the truth it carried. I broke the seal carefully, heart hammering. Inside was a single folded sheet and a worn Polaroid, its edges curled with time.
I opened the note.
Dear Jan,
If you're reading this, it means something has happened—something I prayed would never come to pass. I don't know what the world looks like for you right now, and that terrifies me. But I need you to listen.
Trust Job. I know it's sudden, and I wish I had told you more before now, but I was trying to protect you—for as long as I could. Job was there when I had nothing, and again when everything I loved was at risk. If he's with you, it means it's time.
There's a place. A safe one. I've kept it hidden in case… in case we ever needed it. Job will take you. Go. Don't question too much right now. Just go.
There are things I haven't told you—truths I wasn't ready to share. But they're waiting for you. And when you find them, I hope you'll understand why I did everything the way I did.
Always,
Mama.
Her handwriting punched the breath from my lungs. Slanted. Deliberate. Unmistakable.
It was like hearing her voice again—alive in the ink, trembling in my hands. My vision blurred for a moment, not from tears but from the sheer weight of it. My knees buckled slightly.
Jason stepped in immediately, one arm wrapping around my waist just in time. I leaned into him, my body betraying the composure I was fighting so hard to keep.
"She wrote this," I murmured, though it wasn't a question. Saying it made it feel real—too real.
Grief wrapped itself around my ribs. Not loud or wild, just silent and sinking. Like a stone dropped in deep water.
Jason's grip steadied me. I felt the warmth of his hand against my side, his breath close. His presence, solid and calm, held me together.
"What's the address?" he asked, voice low, careful.
I turned the letter, the paper fluttering slightly in the breeze. Beneath the message was a line of writing—faded but clear. An address. Remote.
A place that waited. A secret only the dead could've trusted me to find.
Job stepped back, giving us space. "She planned for everything. We need to leave before dark.
Job's car moved quietly, the engine a low hum as we wound through narrowing roads. Shadows stretched long across the path, the sky dimming with a slow, deliberate hush. Trees lined either side like guards, their branches forming dark, swaying arches above us.
Jason sat in the passenger seat, silent. His posture was still, but the stiffness in his shoulders said more than words could. I caught glimpses of his reflection in the window—jaw tight, eyes watchful. My own hands were cold, curled around each other in my lap, trying to ground the tremor that had started somewhere deep inside.
The city had slipped away behind us without notice. Now there was just the road, the trees, and the lingering quiet that felt both heavy and hollow. I leaned into the seat as the car turned gently, revealing open fields occasionally broken by the skeletal remains of abandoned buildings or lonely fences.
Something about the drive made it real—more real than the letter, more real than the Polaroid still tucked against my chest. We were leaving the world we knew behind. Whatever waited at that address… it felt like the end of one story and the fragile beginning of another.
Then, through a curtain of trees, the house appeared—sudden and still. A stone mansion. Old. Imposing. Beautiful in a way that made my breath catch. No lights. No sound. Just the slow arrival of night curling around it like a secret.
Jason reached for the door before Job had even stopped the car.
"I'll take care of everything," Job said, guiding us inside with quiet confidence.
The wooden door opened before we knocked. A woman in scrubs stood there, framed by the soft amber glow spilling from inside. Her eyes were gentle but alert, like someone who had seen more than she'd ever speak about. The scent of lavender and old books lingered faintly in the warm air behind her.
"You need rest," she said to me kindly. "The pain will fade once you lie down."
We stepped into a hallway lined with polished wooden panels and quiet lighting. Paintings in faded gold frames lined the walls—landscapes and portraits, nothing modern, but nothing cold. The air felt lived-in, like the house had held silence for a long time and was now letting it go.
Jason hesitated at my side, eyes scanning the room beyond the woman. Then he followed—quiet, watchful—as she led us through the hallway. He didn't speak, but I could feel him just behind me, his presence like a shadow I trusted.
The woman guided us to a small bedroom, warm and softly lit. A tall window let in the fading light, sheer curtains billowing slightly with the breeze. The bed was already turned down, the sheets crisp and clean. I sank down slowly, my body heavier than I remembered.
She handed me a single pill and a glass of water. "Just something for the pain," she said gently.
Jason stood near the door, arms crossed, his gaze on me but unreadable.
Moments later, Job entered with two cups of tea.
"Chamomile," he said with a faint smile. "It helps you relax."
I accepted the cup. So did Jason, though his suspicion hadn't faded. We sat in silence, letting the warmth seep into our bones. It was calming. Too calming.
My eyelids grew heavy.
The woman left. Job stood at the door, his back to us.
I turned to Jason. He was already sinking into the chair beside me, eyes half-closed, the tension in his shoulders softening. "You trust him?" I whispered.
He nodded, but the doubt still lingered in his voice. "I don't know. But I don't have a better option."
Everything slowed. Time, thoughts, breath. The tea's warmth spread like fog through my veins. Soothing. Dulling.
My head dropped against the pillows.
The last thing I heard before darkness took me was Job's voice.
"Rest. It'll be over soon."