The waiting didn't last long.
That night, Mason woke up gasping like someone had pulled the air straight out of his lungs.
He sat up, heart slamming, unsure of what had woken him—was it a voice? A dream? A sound? The silence after?
The digital clock on his nightstand blinked its blood-red numbers at him.
3:14.
Of course it was.
He didn't move at first. His body felt frozen, skin cold, hair damp from sweat. But something was off.
There was a weight in the room.
Not someone.
Something.
It sat in the corners like smoke, heavy and watching. The air buzzed faintly, like a high-pitched ring just beyond the reach of hearing. His breath came in shallow pulls, painful, like his lungs were resisting.
Then he saw it.
The box.
Back on the nightstand.
Open.
He hadn't touched it. Hadn't even brought it upstairs.
But there it was.
And inside—something new.
A photograph.
He leaned over slowly, picking it up with fingers that trembled as if they already knew what they would find.
A young woman.
Red hair. Green eyes. That same half-smile that said she knew something you didn't.
Emily.
Even after all these years, he knew her instantly.
He hadn't seen her since high school.
Not since the fire.
The photo wasn't old.
It looked recent. High resolution. Clean edges. The kind of clarity you got from a phone taken in the last week or two.
But she looked exactly the same.
Same leather bracelet. Same denim jacket with the skull patch. Same glint in her eye.
Like time hadn't touched her.
He turned the photo over.
One word was written on the back in faded black ink.
REGRET.
Mason didn't sleep again that night.
He sat in bed until morning, the photo pressed between his fingers, reading the word over and over until it stopped making sense.
High school. Senior year. The farmhouse party.
That was the last time he saw her.
Everyone had been drinking. Music blaring from someone's dad's speakers. The place had no electricity, so everything ran off a janky generator someone rigged in the back.
It had felt reckless. Wild. Dangerous in that teenage way that made you feel immortal.
He remembered Emily dancing barefoot in the living room, her laugh cutting through the noise like it had its own rhythm. She was fearless. Untouchable.
Then someone screamed, "FIRE!"
Panic set in fast. People shoved past one another, leaping through windows and stumbling down the porch steps.
Mason ran.
He never stopped to think.
Never turned around.
Not until later.
By the time they realized she hadn't made it out, the farmhouse was gone. The roof had collapsed. The heat too intense.
They searched for days.
No body was ever found.
Some said she'd burned completely. Others said she used the chaos to disappear, run away, and start fresh somewhere new.
But Mason?
He always blamed himself.
Now he walked the house in slow circles, the photo still in his hand, afraid to put it down. He held it up to the light, to different windows, trying to convince himself maybe—just maybe—it wasn't her.
But it always was.
He muttered her name under his breath without meaning to.
"Emily… Emily…"
Like a prayer. Or a confession. Or both.
He opened the box again.
Empty.
Just that soft black velvet interior.
But the air in the room had shifted.
It smelled like smoke now.
Like burned wood.
Like something had happened here, something that left ashes behind.
That night, he curled up on the couch with the photo still in his hand.
Sleep came slowly and not kindly.
He was back in the hallway.
The black tile. No ceiling. Fog drifting above him like slow-moving ghosts.
Everything was still. Too still.
Except this time—there was a door.
A tall, narrow frame at the far end. Light spilled from under it, flickering like candlelight. The air pulsed with a dull hum, like electricity buried in the walls.
He walked toward it.
His bare feet echoed softly against the tile. With each step, the buzzing grew louder.
The door had a sign painted across it.
Rough. Sloppy. In red.
It dripped like blood that hadn't dried.
EMILY'S ROOM.
He stopped, heart hammering.
He reached for the handle.
His fingers brushed the cool metal.
That's when the whisper came—right behind his ear.
"This is what you owe."