They left before dawn.
The road to Easton was rough—twisting through dense forests, abandoned train tracks, and fog that clung to the earth like forgotten ghosts. Maya sat in the passenger seat of Daniel's truck, eyes fixed on the map. Her pulse thudded against her ribs.
"The psychiatric ward was shut down fifteen years ago," Daniel said, breaking the silence. "After a fire. But it was already a graveyard by then."
"Do you think Elias is still alive?" Maya asked, voice barely audible.
Daniel didn't answer at first. "He was the kind of kid who survived things most people wouldn't. If anyone could make it through hell... it'd be him."
That thought gave her enough air to breathe.
As they neared the outskirts of Easton, the town seemed swallowed by time. The houses leaned inward like they'd given up. Graffiti covered every wall. A rusted sign read: Easton Psychiatric Hospital – Healing Minds Since 1924.
Maya scoffed. "Lies etched in steel."
They parked behind the remains of an old boiler building and walked the rest of the way. The wind whispered through broken windows. Vines crawled along the walls like veins, gripping every inch of the once-proud facility.
Inside, the air was stale—thick with mold and memories.
They stepped cautiously, flashlights cutting through the dark. File cabinets were overturned. Medical instruments rusted in trays. The silence was deafening—until Maya heard something faint.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
Daniel nodded. "Below us."
They found a collapsed corridor leading to the basement. The stairs were broken, but the steel ladder bolted to the wall was still intact. Daniel climbed down first, then helped Maya.
The basement was colder, far more silent.
And then... the corridor opened into a long underground hallway—lined with old padded cells. Names were etched into each door. Some had dates. Others had just initials.
But one stood out.
E. WARD – 2009.
Maya stared, breath caught in her throat. Her hand reached out and touched the cold, rusted nameplate. "He was real. They put him here."
The door creaked open, and they stepped inside. The cell was empty—but scribbled on the wall, written over and over in shaky, desperate handwriting, was the same sentence:
"They can erase memories, but not the truth."
Daniel stepped forward. "This room hasn't been touched in years."
Maya nodded. "But he left a message. For me."
Suddenly, a metallic click echoed behind them. The cell door slammed shut. The light flickered—and then they heard the hum of something powering up.
"Maya..." Daniel whispered.
From the shadows outside the cell, a voice drifted toward them. Male. Rough. Familiar.
"Been a long time, sister."
Her knees buckled. "Elias?"
Silence.
Then the lights died.