The ride in the cab to St. Enoch's seemed to stretch on for an eternity, lasting a full forty-five minutes. Had Adrian been behind the wheel himself, he might have been able to cut that time in half, but the mere thought of gripping the steering wheel while his nerves felt like raw, exposed wires made the idea utterly unappealing. Throughout the entire journey, the driver remained quiet, and that was exactly how Adrian preferred it—he felt grateful for the driver's silence.
It had been nearly two decades since Adrian had last set foot in the orphanage; the memory of the last visit was forever burned into his mind due to one life-altering event—the fire that had ravaged the place.
At least, that's how the story went. Everyone had referred to it simply as a fire. But even as a child, Adrian possessed an instinctual awareness of the sentiment behind deceit, a recognition that came not as a cloudy thought but rather as a gut feeling. Lies didn't leave smudges of ash on your palms; instead, they clung to your very essence, wrapping around your breath and your skin like an invisible chain that followed you into adulthood, shadowing every step you took.
As the cab turned down the familiar dirt road that wound its way toward the remnants of the old building, Adrian began to feel the first tremors of anxiety creep back into his fingertips, a sensation he thought he had buried long ago. To his astonishment, the physical structure of St. Enoch's still stood, an oddity he had not anticipated.
It was dilapidated and forlorn, with crumbling walls sagging under the weight of time and overrun by creeping ivy and rot, but despite its severe disrepair, it remained upright. The sign that once skillfully announced the orphanage had completely collapsed, yet faint traces of letters still clung stubbornly to the rusted metal arch that had once been the welcoming gate for children:
St. Enoch's Children's Home
"Where All Are Seen"
Adrian stepped out of the cab, his heart pounding within his chest. He lingered for a long moment, heart heavy with memories that swirled around him. The driver, however, did not linger for sentimentality; as soon as the door swung shut behind Adrian, the cab sped away down the dirt road, leaving him enveloped in a thin cloud of dust that hung in the air like an unspoken memory. Instantly, an oppressive silence fell upon him, thick and heavy, like an old curtain dropping down.
Adrian's gaze was drawn to the warped front door of the orphanage. He vividly recalled the unmistakable sounds it used to produce when it creaked open—first the long, groaning complaint of wood, followed by the sudden rush of cold air that would greet him. Inside, the floors were perpetually damp, polished to a sheen, and always filled with an unmistakable combination of bleach and something far older, a scent that had lingered in the air.
As he crossed the threshold cautiously, each step stirred up clouds of dust and disturbed the remnants of dead insects that had found their final resting place in the corners. The interior had collapsed in several places, yet the skeletal remains of the building stood defiantly: the tall walls, the iron staircases twisted by time, and the tiled mosaics that had become cracked and faded, like fragmented memories.
He realized that while details of his past were murky, his body seemed to remember far more than his mind allowed. He wandered deeper into the haunting remains of the home, passing broken chairs and rusted bedframes scattered about like forgotten relics. The hallways constricted around him, feeling oddly smaller and more confining than they had in his youth—almost claustrophobic, akin to how nightmares compress reality to ensnare you.
It was in the back hallway that Adrian found the door to the basement.
To his dismay, it was still locked. He stood there for what felt like a lifetime, staring at the handle that seemed to mock him. A memory surfaced from the depths of his mind—a memory of a boy, younger than he was, with brown eyes and crooked teeth. This boy had been his only friend in that desolate place. They would sit together in the stairwell, their voices low and conspiratorial, spinning fantasies about freedom and what they might become once they escaped the confines of the orphanage.
But one night, when Adrian had hurried to the infirmary to tend to a badly bruised leg after a punishment session, he returned to discover that his friend was missing. They had told Adrian that the boy had run away. But deep down, Adrian knew the truth. He just lacked the proof—until now.
Feeling a rush of determination, he pressed down on the lock, and after a few seconds of pressure, he felt the satisfying crack of wood as the door swung open. With a quick flick of his flashlight, he descended the stairs cautiously. Dust clung to every surface, thick and unbothered by time, as if the air had grown stagnant down here, taking on the musty scent of mold and rusted iron.
At the bottom of the stairs, a long hallway stretched out before him. At the end, he could make out a room that stirred conflicting feelings within him—he didn't remember it in detail, yet it felt hauntingly familiar. The room was lined with tiled walls, featuring a drain that ran down the center of the floor. Medical hooks dangled from rusted metal stands, and a desk with buckled legs sat askew, its old drawers having been chewed through by rodents.
Adrian's breath caught in his throat. There were still papers strewn about. Stacks of documents—water-damaged and curled at the edges, lay scattered across the desk, yet portions of the text remained legible. He moved cautiously, lifting the papers one by one.
Observation Logs
Subject A4
Date: 11/02/2004
"Subject remains emotionally unreactive to stimuli. Synesthetic episodes observed during physical testing. Recommended for advanced isolation protocols."
Flipping to the next page, Adrian's heart raced.
Subject A4. Code: KELLER
A dry sensation invaded his mouth. He continued to read, each detail emerging in cold, clinical language:
"Responds to others' physical pain with mirrored reactions."
"Subject witnesses peer trauma with significant physical distress."
"Possible spontaneous echo of non-visual cues."
"Recommended memory repression after Incident 14B."
Each line seemed to reach out, pulling him deeper into a web of memories and truths he had long avoided.
Incident 14B
It had happened again, just as before, with an unsettling familiarity that sent chills down Adrian's spine. The subsequent lines of the document were obscured, marked out with careful redaction, leaving him with a strong sense of unease. However, the final statement stood out starkly, unaltered and unmistakable:
"Do not permit Subject A4 to reestablish contact with B7. Dangerous bonding behavior observed."
With this realization, Adrian took a staggering step back, the meaning of those words crashing over him like a wave.
B7.
That name reverberated in his mind. It was the name of the boy—the very boy who had been his friend. The one who had vanished without a trace. The one whose absence had carved a hollow ache in Adrian's chest, leading him to wonder if, perhaps, he had not actually perished at all. In a daze, Adrian fumbled and allowed the stack of papers to slip from his fingers, watching them flutter to the ground. He staggered across the room, moving toward the far wall as if drawn by an unseen force. His flashlight, flickering ominously, began to fade into darkness, casting eerie shadows around him.
Then, just as the dim light sputtered, his gaze fell upon something unexpected—a drawing etched upon the wall. It appeared to be carved into the surface with a shard of something sharp, its form still visible beneath layers of accumulated dust from the years:
A delicate crescent shape, a sharp slash beside it, followed by a looping design.
Beneath this enigmatic artwork, crude block letters surged forth, screaming their message into the silence:
I'M STILL HERE.
A frigid wave of nausea gripped Adrian's stomach, making everything swirl around him. In a gut-wrenching panic, he turned and bolted—pushing himself out of that suffocating room, racing up the stairs, and bursting through the front doors into the harsh light of the gray day outside.
The outside air hit him like a violent slap, shocking him more awake than he had felt in a long time. He doubled over, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to gather his breath. His lungs felt as though they were on fire, working overtime to supply his body with the oxygen it desperately craved.
His heart thudded fiercely in his chest, beating so fiercely that he could hear the thunderous rhythm reverberating inside his skull. He had not been alone in that terrible place. No, not then. And perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn't alone now.
When he finally arrived back home, evening was setting in, casting a dusky hue across the landscape outside. In a daze, he ignored the influx of messages from Lena pinging on his phone. He didn't even bother to check his email, nor did he return Reyes' urgent call.
Instead, he found himself wandering into the kitchen, pouring a glass of water in a mechanical fashion. He stared at the clear liquid, as if it might somehow reveal the answers to the chaos swirling in his mind.
But then, out of the periphery of his vision, something on the countertop snagged his attention.
There, lying innocently was a small, folded piece of paper. He was certain he hadn't left it there. With a trembling hand, he unfolded it slowly, expecting… something. The paper was blank, appearing unremarkable at first until he tilted it towards the light.
Suddenly, letters began to emerge, revealing themselves like dark secrets coming to life:
"You're remembering. Good."
A rush of icy dread shot through Adrian, leaving his fingers tingling and numb as he gripped the paper tighter. On the reverse side, he discovered a fingerprint—pressed into the surface, as if it had been stamped there with purpose using warm wax.
Adrian sank into the nearest chair, heart racing, the note gripped tightly in his hand. He had no idea who was orchestrating this cryptic exchange, who was sending him these unsettling messages. But one thing was abundantly clear…
Whoever was behind this had been observing him for a long time, long before the first body had ever turned up, and that thought chilled him to the very bone.