The Last Book of the Kind: Part One - Darkness

The light should have hurt, but it didn’t.

Sunlight flooded the highway in blinding sheets, sharp enough that other drivers hid behind dark lenses, yet to Amelia it felt muted, as if something stood between her and the world and dulled everything that should have been clear. The sky above wasn’t truly blue either—it carried a strange, bruised depth, heavy in a way that made it feel closer than it should have been.

Even the landscape beyond the sound barriers looked wrong. It wasn’t darker in any obvious sense, and yet the light didn’t seem to reach it properly, as if something thin and unseen had settled over everything, softening edges, swallowing contrast.

Her therapist had called it exhaustion. Trauma. The mind protecting itself.

Amelia didn’t believe that anymore.

Something had changed when the dreams started.

Not dreams—one dream, repeating with quiet persistence, returning every time she slipped into sleep, no matter how briefly. It didn’t shift or blur like ordinary nightmares. It waited for her. And lately, it no longer stayed where it belonged.

It followed.

She was driving back because of it.

That was the only explanation she could give herself, even if it sounded absurd when put into words. Go home, find the source, confront whatever had been left unresolved, and somehow come out of it with something resembling peace.

The idea almost made her laugh.

Because returning to the place you once escaped was hardly a cure. It felt more like stepping back into something that had never truly let you go.

Still, she kept driving.

Not out of conviction. Work slipped through her fingers lately. Even the simplest tasks took too long, as if something inside her refused to stay present.

The car that passed her came too fast.

A flash of metal, close enough to graze her mirror, gone before she could react. Her hands tightened instinctively around the wheel, her pulse spiking in response.

“Where the hell are you going,” she muttered under her breath.

She didn’t have to wonder long.

A few seconds ahead, the same car jerked violently across both lanes, swerving once, then again, before slamming into the crash barriers with a shriek of tearing metal.

Amelia reacted before the thought formed.

The handbrake snapped up, the wheel turned hard, and her car slid sideways, coming to a stop less than a meter from the wreck.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Her hands stayed locked around the steering wheel, her breath uneven, catching somewhere it shouldn’t, while her heart hammered against her ribs with a force that bordered on painful. She stared ahead, aware—too clearly—of how little had separated her from the impact.

From dying.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, that thought felt wrong in a way it never had before. There had been a time when it came quietly, almost welcome in its own way, but now it pressed against her with something closer to resistance.

The shift unsettled her more than the crash itself.

She forced herself to move.

Hazard lights first. Then the door.

The air outside felt different the moment she stepped into it—thicker, almost charged, as if something unseen pressed faintly against her skin and slipped into her lungs with every breath.

“Shit,” she murmured.

The scent reached her a second later.

Metallic. Sharp. Almost electric.

Unfamiliar—and yet not.

It didn’t register as a smell so much as recognition, as if her body understood something her mind hadn’t caught up with yet.

She looked toward the car.

And saw it.

Something stood beside the driver’s door.

Not clearly. Not fully formed. But present in a way that left no room for doubt. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. It simply existed there, as if it had always been meant to.

Waiting.

And somehow aware of her.

Her throat tightened.

“No,” she said, the word thinner than she intended.

Every instinct told her to turn back, to get into the car and leave before whatever this was came any closer.

She ignored it.

Instead, she stepped forward, closing the distance before hesitation could take hold, her hand reaching for the handle in one continuous motion.

The moment her fingers touched the metal, something cut through her chest.

Not spreading. Not exploding.

Precise.

As if something inside her had been found and held there.

Her breath faltered, her body tightening around it, but she didn’t pull away.

Because there was someone inside.

And that mattered more.

The door gave under her hand, and a wave of trapped heat spilled out from the car, thick with sunlight and stale air. The man behind the wheel looked to be in his sixties, dressed too well for the state he was in, his shirt still crisp even as his body folded inward, one hand locked around his left arm as if holding it in place could stop something far worse from happening.

“Entschuldigung,” he breathed.

The word barely reached her.

The pressure in her chest tightened again—not sharp this time, but deeper, settling into something that felt disturbingly out of place. It didn’t behave like pain she recognized. It moved differently, arriving with a rhythm that didn’t belong to her.

She pulled out her phone and dialed emergency services, forcing her voice to stay steady as she gave their location, even as her breath kept slipping out of sync.

Another car pulled over behind her.

“What happened? I’m a doctor.”

“Heart attack,” she managed. “Ambulance is on the way.”

He was already moving, pulling the man from the car and lowering him onto the asphalt with practiced efficiency before she had fully stepped back. There was no hesitation in him, no wasted motion—just a sequence that unfolded with absolute focus.

Then he began.

Thirty compressions, steady and exact.

Something in Amelia’s chest responded immediately, tightening with each downward motion—not after, not as an echo, but at the same moment, as if the force translated through space and found her instead. The sensation didn’t spike; it built, layer by layer, each compression adding weight until it became impossible to separate what she felt from what she was seeing.

She stepped back, her hand bracing against the hood of her car as she tried to steady her breathing, but the rhythm held her in place, persistent and exact, pulling her into it whether she followed or not.

“Breathe,” the doctor snapped.

She tried, but her lungs refused to settle, the air catching, slipping, returning out of sequence, as if something else dictated the timing now. The edges of her vision blurred slightly, her focus thinning under the pressure.

The compressions continued.

The weight deepened.

Not sharper.

Heavier.

Until the thought surfaced, slow and undeniable:

this isn’t mine.

And then it was gone.

Not fading. Not easing.

Gone.

Her chest expanded in a sudden, uncontrolled breath, her body struggling for a second to adjust to the absence of something it had already begun to accept.

The doctor leaned back, exhaustion settling into his shoulders.

“He’ll live,” he said quietly.

Relief didn’t come.

Amelia’s gaze drifted past him, back to the space beside the car, and although nothing stood there in any way she could clearly define, she knew it hadn’t disappeared.

It had only stepped back.

“You’re from Poznań?” the doctor asked, looking at her properly now. “Are you traveling far?”

“Far,” she answered.

The word felt strange in her mouth.

He stepped closer, concern replacing the earlier detachment.

“You don’t look well. You should rest. In this state, you won’t get far.”

She didn’t respond.

Because she wasn’t sure anymore what far meant, only that whatever she had been moving toward no longer felt like the direction that mattered.

The helicopter announced itself before it appeared, a low, distant thrum that grew steadily until the air shifted under it, wind pressing against her, grounding everything back into something physical.

For a moment, she felt it again.

Not the pressure.

Something else.

A quiet, unsettling awareness, as if whatever had been there had not left at all, only changed its distance.

Still present.

Still watching.

And waiting.

She got into the car without fully deciding to.

The engine started. The road opened ahead.

In the rearview mirror, she saw the doctor turn, confusion breaking across his face as he realized what she was doing. He lifted his hands slightly, as if about to call out, then let them fall.

She drove.

Only when the wreck disappeared behind a bend did the tremor begin.

It started in her fingers, small and controlled, then spread through her arms, into her chest, where something tightened again—not in rhythm with anything this time, not aligned with anyone else.

This was hers.

“What is happening to me?” she whispered.

No answer came.

But beneath the fading adrenaline, beneath the rational explanations her mind tried to assemble, something else settled into place.

A certainty.

Whatever had stood beside that car had not mistaken her.

It had found her.

Did you notice something strange about this scene?

Because Amelia did.

The pain wasn’t hers.

So tell me honestly — what do you think she’s actually connected to?

Him?

Something else?

Or something that’s been following her from the beginning?

– N.