I didn't want to remember.
But the thing about ghosts is — they never ask for permission.
My hands hovered above the keyboard, shaking. The words came out like a confession I'd buried too long.
It was raining that night.
Not the kind of rain that cools the world down. The kind that feels angry. The kind that makes you believe heaven is crying for someone.
We were three in the car; Kane, her, and me.
No one said a word for miles. Just the sound of the wipers fighting the storm.
She sat in the back seat, humming softly. That tune still follows me sometimes. I never learned the name, but I remember the sound, gentle, broken, like someone trying to comfort themselves.
Kane's face was hard. His hands gripped the wheel too tightly. I knew something was wrong, but I told myself it wasn't my place to ask.
It's strange, the things you remember when you're trying to forget.
The smell of wet leather. The red light glowing faintly on the dashboard. Her laughter, cut off mid-sentence.
Then, nothing.
Just the sound of metal meeting metal, and my own scream.
When I woke up, the rain had stopped. The world was too quiet. Kane was on the ground, bleeding but alive.
She wasn't.
No one ever knew what really happened that night.
And I made
sure it stayed that way.