The Quiet
One year passed.
The seasons turned. The city buried itself in snow, then thawed into spring, then baked under summer sun. The lot where the Colfax had stood was now a parking garage, anonymous and ordinary, its concrete floors echoing with the footsteps of commuters. No one remembered the whispers. No one remembered the missing. No one remembered the dark.
Brynn and Corinne tried to forget.
They had moved to a new neighborhood, a small duplex with a garden and a porch and a view of the hills. The windows were large, the rooms bright, the walls thin but silent. No whispers. No shadows. No dreams of the river.
Corinne had gone back to school. She was studying psychology, hoping to help others who had survived trauma. She still had nightmares, but they were less frequent now, less vivid. She still talked to herself sometimes, late at night, but Brynn didn’t ask who was listening.
Nadine had moved in. They were happy. As happy as anyone could be, after what they had been through.
Brynn had started painting. Landscapes, mostly. The river, the hills, the sky. She painted the Colfax once, in the dark, and then burned the canvas. She didn’t need to remember. She needed to heal.
But some nights, she still walked to the river.
She would stand on the bank, listening to the water, watching the lights of the city reflect on the surface. The spots where they had buried the pieces of the seed were overgrown now, hidden by grass and weeds. The stones were still there, worn smooth by rain.
She never touched them. She never dug them up. She just watched.
And listened.
The whispers never came.
But sometimes, just sometimes, she felt something. A presence. A hunger. A seed, buried deep, waiting.
Waiting for someone to dig it up. Waiting for someone to feed it. Waiting for the dark to come again.
One evening, Corinne joined her.
They stood side by side, looking at the water.
“Do you think it’s really over?” Corinne asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Kael said the thing from the depths was ancient. Patient. It could wait centuries.”
“It can wait. But we don’t have to.”
“What if someone else finds the pieces? What if someone else feeds them?”
“Then we’ll be here. We’ll stop them.”
“How?”
Brynn put her arm around her sister.
“Together.”
They walked home through the quiet streets.
The city was asleep. The stars were bright. The air was cold.
Brynn unlocked the door to the duplex. Nadine was in the kitchen, making tea. The television was on, some late‑night show, laughter and music.
“We were worried,” Nadine said.
“Just taking a walk.”
“At midnight?”
“The river is beautiful at night.”
Nadine didn’t ask more. She handed them each a cup of tea and led them to the couch.
They sat together, three women with scars they didn’t talk about, watching a comedy they didn’t understand.
The television flickered.
Brynn looked at the screen.
For a moment—just a moment—she saw something in the reflection. A face. Pale. Hollow. Familiar.
Kael.
Then it was gone.
“Did you see that?” Corinne whispered.
“No,” Brynn lied.
She didn’t look at the screen again.
That night, she dreamed of the white room.
The light was soft now, not blinding. The silence was gentle, not heavy. The walls were not walls; they were windows. And beyond them, a garden. Green and growing. Alive.
You’re healing, a voice said. Not the whispers. Not the thing. Something softer. Kinder.
You’re letting go.
“I’m trying.”
Keep trying.
She woke with the sunrise.
The room was warm. Nadine was cooking breakfast. Corinne was laughing at something on her phone. The television was off. The window was bright.
Brynn looked at her hands.
Clean.
Free.
She smiled.
The end.