Chapter Thirty-One: The Things We Don't Bury
The night didn't feel quiet.
It felt like it was holding its breath.
Hazel stood by the window, the curtains barely twitching in the wind, her reflection staring back at her like a stranger who knew too much. The city lights below blinked lazily, unaware that something had shifted—something irreversible.
She pressed her palm to the glass. Cold. Grounding.
This is real, she reminded herself. You're awake. You chose this.
The letter was still on the bed behind her.
She hadn't touched it again since reading the last line.
You were never supposed to remember.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Hazel stiffened.
No one knocked this late. Not here. Not after everything.
"Hazel," Lucien's voice came through the door, low and cautious. "I know you're awake."
Of course he did.
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she picked up the letter, folded it once—neatly, like control was something she could still practice—and slid it into the drawer beside her bed.
Then she opened the door.
Lucien stood there looking nothing like the man who always seemed untouchable. His jacket was gone, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes darker than usual—like he'd been running from thoughts that were faster than him.
"You felt it too," he said, not a question.
Hazel stepped aside, letting him in.
"The dream?" she asked.
"The memory," he corrected.
That single word sent a sharp pulse through her chest.
Lucien closed the door behind him, leaning against it like his legs might give out if he didn't. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them buzzed—thick with things they had both avoided naming.
"You said you didn't know me back then," Hazel said finally. "You swore it."
"I didn't lie," Lucien replied, jaw tight. "Not the way you think."
She turned to face him. "Then explain why I remember your voice from a place I've never been."
Silence.
The worst kind—the kind that confesses without words.
Lucien exhaled slowly. "Because you have been there. And because I was the one who took you out."
Hazel laughed once, sharp and humorless. "That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
Her hands curled into fists. "You're saying I forgot an entire part of my life?"
"I'm saying someone made sure you did."
The room felt smaller.
Hazel's head throbbed as images flickered at the edge of her mind—water dripping from concrete ceilings, a red light blinking endlessly, the sound of her own voice screaming a name she couldn't fully hear.
"Why?" she whispered.
Lucien pushed off the door and took a step toward her, then stopped—like he wasn't sure he had the right.
"To protect you," he said. "And to protect everyone else from you."
That did it.
Her breath hitched. "From me?"
"You were different back then, Hazel. Not dangerous—just… awake. You saw things before they happened. You asked questions that scared the wrong people."
The letter burned in her thoughts.
You were never supposed to remember.
Hazel shook her head. "If that's true, why now? Why is it coming back?"
Lucien met her eyes, and whatever she saw there made her stomach drop.
"Because the people who erased you," he said quietly, "are active again."
A sudden crash echoed from outside—metal slamming against metal.
Both of them froze.
Lucien moved first, pulling Hazel toward him and killing the lights in one swift motion. They stood in darkness, her heart racing so loud she was sure it could be heard.
Footsteps.
Close.
Hazel's mind screamed one thought, over and over:
They found me.
Lucien leaned down, his lips brushing her ear.
"No more running," he whispered. "This time, we fight."
And for the first time, Hazel didn't feel afraid.
She felt ready.