After our Scooby-Doo-level forest adventure, we ended up in my garage. It was the only place that still felt normal—even though normal felt like a joke these days. Dusty shelves, a deflated yoga ball no one ever used, and the ancient fridge that sometimes made scary gurgling sounds. Comforting chaos.
Chloe plopped onto the old couch, Peter sat on the stool with one broken leg (he lived on the edge), and I grabbed my beanbag. We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything slowly crashing in like a delayed wave.
"Okay," Chloe said, cracking her knuckles like a detective on her third cup of coffee, "what the heck is going on?"
"I wish I knew," I muttered. "I mean, I saw the tree before I ever saw it. In my dream. Exactly the same."
"And then this photo," Peter added, rubbing his temples. "A literal ancient photo with someone who looks like you just standing there. That's not normal, Em."
"I know," I said. "And it's not just that she looks like me. She is me. Same eyes. Same nose. Same stupid birthmark under the chin that I hate."
Chloe leaned forward. "Okay but like—what if it's not you? What if it's someone you're related to? A long-lost twin? A reincarnated spirit? A time-traveling ancestor who accidentally got stuck in black and white land?"
Peter gave her a look. "You've been watching too many Netflix shows."
Chloe raised her eyebrows. "Sue me for being thorough."
"I just don't get why Mrs. Grace has that photo," I said. "Why would she have it? She's just a teacher."
Peter scoffed. "She's not just a teacher anymore, not after that cryptic mumbling and spooky one-liner she dropped on you."
"She said I wasn't supposed to remember yet," I whispered. "What does that even mean? And then she asked me what I felt. Like... not what I saw, or thought—but felt."
That's when the silence hit us again. I was picking at the edge of the beanbag when Peter shifted a little closer. Not a lot. Just... enough.
"Hey," he said softly, "you okay?"
I looked up at him—and he was already looking at me.
And then it happened. That moment.
Our eyes held. I saw the tiny flicker of worry in his expression, and I don't know what mine looked like but my cheeks started burning. His did too.
We both looked away at the exact same time.
Chloe, completely oblivious, was mumbling something about alien possession.
But my heart was doing cartwheels. And I could still feel the warmth in my face, and maybe—just maybe—I wasn't the only one.
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about everything. Not just the tree or the girl in the photo... but Peter. The way he looked at me. The fact that we both blushed like awkward middle schoolers. And even though we didn't talk about it, something shifted.
But the mystery came crawling back. The more I thought about the photo, the more I felt like it wasn't just something I saw—it was something I knew.
So the next day, I did something a little reckless.
I ditched my last class and headed straight to Mrs. Grace's room.
Her door was open. Empty.
But there it was on the desk—the photo.
I walked toward it slowly, breath tight in my chest. The forest in the photo was younger, but familiar. The tree. The little girl. Me.
And then a voice behind me made me jump.
"I knew you'd come back."
Mrs. Grace.
Standing in the doorway like she'd been waiting this whole time.
"Back?" I echoed. "I've never—"
"You don't remember yet," she said, stepping in. "But you will."
My throat tightened. "Who is the girl in the photo?"
"That's the wrong question, Emma."
I stared. "Then what's the right one?"
She smiled. "The right question is... who were you?"
---
When she asked something, a memory jolted into my head like a lightning strike. I started screaming, hands clutching my head like I could claw the images out. I couldn't breathe—I was drowning in my own mind.
I saw flashes. Blurry. Nightmarish. I was submerged in water, a dark pool swarming with monstrous, gnarled fish tearing into me. My chest burned. I gasped for breath that never came. And I was wearing a 1940s-style dress, soaked and heavy. I was being tortured. Pulled in and out of the water. I screamed, my voice echoing somewhere between this world and that one.
And then, it stopped. The pain was gone. The vision snapped off like a switch.
Mrs. Grace was staring at me—intensely. Like she wanted to crawl into my mind and sift through the pieces.
"What did you see?" she asked.
Panting, shaking, I asked her through tears,
"Why was I being tortured? Why? What did I do? Was that even me? Who is she? It looks like me—everything! What the hell is happening?!"
That's when Edward burst through the door.
"What the hell? Are you okay?!" he shouted, rushing toward me as I collapsed onto the floor.
Mrs. Grace just stood there. Watching. Almost like she was enjoying it.
Edward glanced at her sharply.
"Mrs. Grace?"
She blinked, and suddenly her face shifted into faux concern.
"Oh no, she just... fainted, I think. She'll be okay."
Edward didn't wait. He scooped me into his arms and ran me to the medical room. He didn't care that I was limp and sweaty and probably looked like a ghost. He was a loyal friend—one of Peter's closest.
Once I was in the nurse's care, he called Peter, Chloe, and my mom. My mom was sobbing over the phone, freaking out. But she was far away—it'd take her at least thirty minutes to reach school.
Peter and Chloe arrived first. Their faces were pale with worry. My blood pressure was dangerously high, they said. I was shaking. Still unconscious.
But inside my head, it wasn't silent.
I was dreaming—no, reliving.
The same scene, again and again.
My leg was chained to something heavy. Iron. Cold. I was yanked into that nightmarish water again, fish biting at my skin. The crowd above was yelling. Their eyes weren't angry—they were full of hate. Pure, raw, ancient hate. I couldn't hear what they were saying. My ears rang.
But there was someone else.
A man. Or maybe a boy. Crying.
He didn't want this. He looked heartbroken. But I couldn't see his full face—just his eyes. Sharp. Warm. A tiny mole beside his right eye.
Something about him felt… familiar.
Before I could focus, the torture started again. Over and over.
And then—
I woke up.
I was in my room. My bed.
I woke up with a gasp—a sharp, raw scream escaping my throat as I pushed him away with all my strength.
"No! No—get away from me!" I cried, flailing, my eyes wide in blind panic.
Peter stumbled back, hands raised. "Emma—Emma, it's me! Calm down—hey, it's okay! You're safe!"
I backed up until my spine hit the headboard, my breaths shallow and rapid like I was suffocating.
"No—no, they're hurting me, the fish—they're biting—I was drowning! I was dying!" My voice cracked, tears spilling uncontrollably. My hands were trembling like leaves in a storm.
Peter rushed forward again, gently this time, lowering himself in front of me.
"Emma... Emma, listen to me. You're not there anymore. You're here. You're safe. I promise, you're not in the water. You're not drowning."
I couldn't stop sobbing. The memory—the pain—it was still in my skin, like I could still feel their teeth.
"It hurt, Peter—it still hurts! They were eating me alive!" I wailed. "They were biting me—I felt every second! Every bite! Every time they pulled me under I couldn't breathe!"
He crawled up beside me, gently wrapping his arms around me even as I kept shivering violently.
"Shh… shhh… you're safe now. I'm here. I've got you," he whispered.
I collapsed against him, crying so hard I could barely speak.
"This is why… oh god, this is why I'm so scared of water!" I said, the realization punching the breath out of me. "When Amanda threw water at me that day… it wasn't just fear. It was—this—this trauma! I couldn't understand it then, but now… I remember! That's why I froze. That's why I couldn't breathe!"
"Emma…" Peter said softly, pulling me closer as I sobbed harder. "I know, I know… I'm here."
I gripped his hoodie with all the strength I had left, like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
"It hurts, Peter. Every time I close my eyes, I feel it again. I feel them pulling me under. I feel my breath stopping. I feel their teeth. My flesh… my skin… it hurts like it's happening all over again!"
He didn't flinch. He held me like a fortress.
"You're not alone. I'm not going anywhere. You and me—we're in this together. You don't have to carry this alone anymore."
But the panic was still coursing through my body, wild and relentless.
"I can't take it anymore, Peter!" I cried, my voice breaking like shattered glass. "I can't do this. I don't want to keep feeling this. I just want it to stop—I want it to end. I want to die!"
Peter pulled back, just enough to cup my face, his eyes glassy but steady.
"Don't say that. Don't even think it." His voice cracked but didn't falter. "You're here. You're alive. You're strong—stronger than anyone I know."
I was shaking my head, sobbing so hard my body curled in on itself again.
"But I don't feel strong," I whispered. "I feel broken. I feel like I'm still there—in that water—every second of it."
Peter held me tighter, sitting on the bed now, both arms around me, anchoring me.
"You survived it, Emma. Whatever it was—whatever happened to you then—you came out of it. You're still here. And I swear to you, I will protect you from anything and everything. You're not going through this alone anymore."
His voice was low but fierce—like a promise carved into the air.
"We'll figure it out together. Whatever this is. Whoever you were. Whoever did this. We'll get answers. We'll get through it. One day at a time. I'm right here. Always."
I nodded into his chest, unable to speak anymore, my throat raw from crying.
But I felt something in that moment. A tiny flicker of safety. Of warmth. Of hope.
Even with the pain. Even with the memories still swirling in my head.
I wasn't alone.
Not anymore.