Chapter 1
The grave was too small. That’s what Adrian kept thinking. He hadn’t cried during the funeral, not even when Malcolm’s mother collapsed into his arms and left mascara on his collar. He hadn’t cried when they lowered the casket. He hadn’t cried when the man reading the eulogy mispronounced Malcolm’s middle name. But now, standing alone with the trees creaking in the winter wind, all he could do was stare at the neat, narrow rectangle of earth and think: It was too small for someone like him.
Snow drifted in lazy spirals, touching the granite stone and vanishing without a trace. Adrian pulled his coat tighter, but the cold had already found its way inside. He couldn’t feel his toes. His fingers were stiff and aching in the gloves. He couldn’t stop shaking, though the sky was calm. Malcolm had hated the cold. Always needed an extra blanket. Always snuck his freezing feet between Adrian’s calves at night, laughing when Adrian flinched and told him to cut it out.
Adrian looked down at the flowers, already wilted. He didn’t remember bringing them. Someone had. Maybe Jude. Maybe Adrian himself, during one of the days that blurred together after the crash.
His heart thumped heavily. He hadn’t spoken Jude’s name out loud in weeks. Not since the hospital. Not since they told him Malcolm’s body had been recovered… but Jude’s hadn’t.
Missing. That’s what the papers said.
Gone.
Or something else.
The pain twisted up again. That same tightness just below his ribs. The same pressure he’d carried since the accident, like something heavy inside him had snapped in half and never quite gone back together. Everyone kept telling him to let go, to move forward, to focus on healing. But how do you heal when one of the people you loved most was six feet under, and the other might still be out there somewhere? Freezing. Hiding. Or worse.
He crouched slowly, brushing away the snow that had settled on the grave marker. The stone was smooth, the letters clean and sharp.
Malcolm Reed Vale
1994 – 2024
Our light, even in winter
Adrian’s throat clenched. He hadn’t written that. Jude had. Before the crash. It had been a line from a letter he’d given Malcolm on their third anniversary. Adrian had read it once, years ago, and forgot. Jude never forgot anything.
He wanted to scream. The kind of sound that didn’t have words, just pain and air and rage. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. So he sat there, on the wet snow, and let the silence press in. The wind moved the trees. A crow hopped across a distant branch, ruffled its feathers, and took off into the gray.
Then his phone buzzed.
He didn’t move at first. The sound felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. The second buzz pulled him back. He reached for it with numb fingers, pulling the cracked screen from his coat pocket. One message. No name. No number.
He blinked.
He’s not dead. But you should be careful what you want.
Adrian’s heart kicked once in his chest, then again faster. He read the message three times, then once more to be sure he wasn’t imagining it. Then he read it out loud.
“He’s not dead,” he said quietly. The sound of his own voice felt foreign.
His first thought was spam. A prank. Some cruel stranger with too much time and no soul. Then a darker thought crept in—one he couldn’t quite name. Not yet.
His hands were shaking harder now, and not just from the cold. He looked around. No one. Just the open cemetery, the curve of the hill, the old maple trees stripped bare by the season. Someone could’ve been watching. From a distance. From a car. From anywhere.
He looked back down at the grave.
If Jude was alive—if there was even a sliver of truth in that message—it changed everything. But that kind of hope came with a price. He knew that too well. Hope made you dig up graves. Hope made you believe things that weren’t real. Hope made you bleed for the same person twice.
The phone buzzed again. Another message. No name.
Go home, Adrian. Let the dead stay dead.
He stood up so fast his knees nearly gave out. He looked around again, chest tight, breath visible in the freezing air. Still nothing. No one. Just snow and silence. He typed back without thinking.
Who is this?
Sent.
Is Jude alive?
Sent.
No reply.
He stared at the screen until it dimmed, then shoved it back into his coat. The wind picked up suddenly, brushing against the back of his neck like fingers. He turned sharply, heart hammering, but there was nothing. Only trees. The rustle of branches. The thud of his pulse in his ears.
His mouth was dry. The snow whispered under his boots as he walked away from the grave. His breath clouded in front of him, but it felt like something else was rising too. Something older. He hadn’t spoken Jude’s name in weeks. Hadn’t let himself even whisper it.
So he did.
He stopped near the edge of the hill, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Jude.”
The wind moved like it had heard him. A long hush through the trees. A shiver in the sky. The faintest trace of something in the distance—a creak, a crunch, something stepping over the crust of snow far away.
He opened his eyes.
Nothing.
But still, he felt it. That strange pull in the gut. That feeling like being watched. Like someone had been standing just out of sight, waiting. The phone buzzed again.
This time the screen was blank.
No message. Just the buzzing.
He let it fall back into his coat and started walking down the hill. His car was parked near the edge of the cemetery. He could see the windshield already frosting over again. He walked fast. Breath rising. Muscles stiff.
By the time he reached the car, his hands were aching so badly he couldn’t grip the keys. He sat inside with the heat blasting, shivering in short bursts. His face felt like stone. His lips wouldn’t move right.
He didn’t start the engine.
He sat there, gripping the wheel, staring out at the road that led back to the city. Lights far off in the fog. Buildings in the distance. Warmth he didn’t want.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the envelope he’d kept hidden since the crash. Jude’s last note.
One line.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.
No name. No explanation.
It had been left in their apartment. Neatly placed on the counter next to a half-eaten apple and a glass of water that never emptied. Adrian hadn’t touched it in weeks.
He unfolded the paper now and stared at the line until the letters blurred.
Then he whispered again. “If you’re out there, Jude. If you’re not dead. Say something.”
The wind moved again. Louder this time. Shoving the trees, tossing powder across the windshield.
And in the distance, just for a moment, he thought he heard it—his name. Not loud. Not human.
Just a sound. Like a memory. Like someone pulling it from their throat across the ice.
He turned the key. The engine groaned awake.
Then he drove. But not home. Not back to Chicago.
He drove toward the hills. Toward the edge of the map.
Toward whatever came next.
