You wake up in the backseat of the car, your head pressed against cold glass, cheek damp with condensation. The hum of the engine is steady, rhythmic, and unfamiliar. Outside, it’s pitch-black—no streetlights, no houses, only the blur of trees racing past. You sit up, slow and groggy, the seatbelt cutting into your ribs.

Your phone’s gone.

Your bag’s gone.

You don’t know where you are.

You don’t know where you’re going.

But he’s in the front seat.

Driving.

You remember his name like a whisper in your bones: Elior.

The boy who disappeared a year ago. The boy you were never supposed to love. The boy they said drowned.

And yet, there he is. Hands on the wheel. Eyes in the mirror. Looking back at you.

“You’re awake,” he says, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. His voice is velvet and thunder. You don’t answer.

“Don’t panic,” he adds. “I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

You don’t feel safe. You feel… enchanted. Terrified. Pulled to him like a tide you can’t fight.

“Where are we?” you ask, voice raspy.

“The woods. The place I told you about. The one from the dreams.”

You don’t remember dreams. You barely remember how you got into the car. Just flashes: his smile under the streetlamp. The warm scent of cedar and smoke. The way he said trust me.

Outside, the road narrows. Fog curls in tendrils against the window.

“Am I dreaming?” you whisper.

Elior doesn’t answer. Instead, he hums something soft and strange—a lullaby made of shadows and regret.

Your heart stutters as memories flicker—his hand in yours, the promise he made on the edge of the river. The way he kissed you like he’d never get another chance. The way he vanished.

“I thought you were dead,” you say, barely audible.

“I was,” he replies, voice like a sigh. “But you wouldn’t let me go, would you?”

Your pulse quickens. The air thickens.

The car stops. Gravel crunches under the tires.

Through the trees, an old cottage waits—covered in ivy and silence. A place you’ve never seen, but somehow remember. The door creaks open by itself.

“Come,” he says, stepping out. “It’s almost midnight.”

You should run. You want to run.

But you follow him.

Because even if he’s cursed—

Even if you never make it back—

You’ve loved him in this life and the last.

And something inside you already knows:

He only came back because you called him.