The bus wheezes as it pulls out of the terminal, its engine coughing like an old smoker. The town slides away behind me—rusted signs, leaning telephone poles, puddles reflecting gray sky. I expect to feel relief as the distance grows, but all I feel is the weight in my chest, the sense that I'm dragging something with me that doesn't want to be left behind.
I take the window seat halfway down the aisle. The glass is streaked with rain, the seats cracked and smelling faintly of dust and gasoline. A few other passengers board: a mother with a sleeping child, a man in a suit reading a newspaper, an elderly woman humming softly to herself.
I keep my bag on my lap, one hand resting on it. Inside is the book—and the gloves, wrapped tight in the towel. I can almost feel their warmth through the fabric, as if the leather is breathing.
I close my eyes and try to steady myself.
Boston. Dr. Miriam Keene. Someone who might make sense of this madness. Someone who might tell me that it's not her—that I'm not losing my mind.
But deep down, I already know the truth. Whatever's haunting me doesn't care about distance.
It's already inside the car with me.
The bus lurches onto the highway, the sky hanging low and heavy with clouds. I pull the book from my bag, half to distract myself. The pages smell like smoke and mildew, like an attic sealed too long.
The note I tore out—the one with Dr. Keene's address—is folded inside the back cover. I run my thumb over the creases and read the last page again, the words almost etched into my mind now:
"If the echo follows, it is because you never let go. The dead cannot move forward while the living refuses to release them."
A reflection flickers in the window.
For a heartbeat, I see her sitting beside me—Emma, her head resting against the glass, hair falling over her shoulder, lips curved in a faint smile.
I turn fast.
Nothing there.
The hum of the engine fills the silence.
The woman across the aisle glances at me, brows knitting. I look away, gripping the book tighter. My heart won't slow down.
I whisper under my breath, "You can't be here."
But part of me hears the reply. A voice soft as static.
Then stop taking me with you.
I swallow hard and stare down at the pages, pretending to read, but the words blur. The black ink runs red for a second—impossible, but I see it—and then settles back to normal.
I blink. My hands are shaking.
Two hours later, the sky darkens. Rain starts again, light at first, then harder, slamming against the windows in sharp bursts. The bus's wipers squeal in protest. The driver mutters something under his breath, turning the radio up—an old jazz station, crackling with static.
I watch the highway stretch endlessly ahead, the lights of cars flashing like distant warnings.
That's when I see it.
A figure standing by the side of the road.
Barefoot.
Drenched.
Wearing red.
The bus speeds past, but my body reacts before my mind catches up. I twist in my seat, looking through the rear window. For a split second, in the wash of taillights, I swear I see her face—Emma's face—watching me go.
I can't breathe.
The man across the aisle lowers his newspaper. "You alright?"
I nod, but the lie tastes bitter.
The child in the front whimpers in her sleep. The radio crackles, the static shaping itself into something almost like words.
"You can't run forever."
I snap my head up. "What did you just say?"
The man frowns. "I didn't say anything."
But the voice wasn't his. It came from the speakers.
The driver smacks the radio with the back of his hand, muttering. "Damn interference."
I glance out the window again, but the rain distorts everything into moving shapes. My reflection wavers in the glass—except it's not just me. There's a shadow behind my shoulder.
A hand, pale and slender, resting gently on my arm.
I jerk away, heart in my throat.
The woman across the aisle stares now, her humming stopped. "You really sure you're okay, hon?"
"Yeah," I say. "Just tired."
She studies me for a beat longer before turning back to her window.
I don't look again.
By nightfall, the bus pulls into a rest stop. The rain has turned to mist, soft and low. The driver calls a twenty-minute break, and everyone files off for coffee or air.
I stay seated. I'm afraid to move.
The air feels colder now. My breath fogs the glass.
When I glance at my bag, I notice it's slightly open. The towel is unwrapped.
One glove is missing.
"No," I whisper.
I search the floor, the seat, under the bag—but it's gone.
The window fogs again, and words begin to form in the condensation.
"Almost there."
I freeze, pulse hammering. I wipe the window with my sleeve, but the letters smear and reform, slower this time— deliberate.
"Find me."
My throat closes up. The bus lights flicker.
A gust of cold air sweeps down the aisle though the doors are still shut.
Something shifts in the reflection—movement that shouldn't be possible. The woman in the window looks back at me, not the one sitting here, but the one behind the glass. Emma's eyes. Emma's smile.
And behind that smile—something else. Something ancient and hungry.
I stand up so fast the seat groans beneath me. The driver turns, shouting something about staying in my seat, but his voice sounds distant, muffled.
I step off the bus into the mist.
The world outside feels wrong—quiet, colorless, humming beneath the surface like it's alive.
I turn back toward the bus. My reflection stares back from the window. For just a second, there's someone standing beside me in it.
A figure in red.
And she's smiling.
By the time the bus starts again, I'm gripping the seat with white knuckles, staring out into the black stretch of road.
I whisper, "Boston. Just make it to Boston."
The lights flicker.
And from somewhere deep inside the engine—or deeper still—comes her voice, soft, calm, inevitable.
"You'll never leave me, Nathan. You never did."
The road hums beneath us, endless and unyielding.
And I realize, for the first time, that maybe she isn't following me at all.
Maybe I'm the one who never stopped following her.