The Cross Over (Silent Moments Series: Book 7)

Chapter 13

 The transition through the anomaly was like stepping from night into day. I led the way, gun poised for danger, into a world so intensely white it was disorienting. My eyes struggled to adapt to the glaring brightness, which seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction. The starkness of this new environment was a jarring contrast to the dark, confined space we had just left.

"Don't move!" My command echoed in the vastness, a reflexive response to the unknown.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the blinding light. "Kegan. They've been waiting for you." The recognition in the voice added a new layer of uncertainty to our already precarious situation.

A woman's voice, tinged with a mixture of awe and excitement, permeated the air. "The key! It's him."

I squinted against the brightness, trying to locate the source. "Gabriel?" My voice was a mixture of surprise and caution.

His response came with a warmth that briefly cut through the cold apprehension. "It's good to see you," he said, though his figure was still a blur in the overwhelming light.

The urgency that had propelled us here resurfaced. "Where are the others?" I asked, my voice tight with concern.

Behind me, Raven echoed my anxiety. "Bellamy? Octavia? Echo?"

Gabriel's response was weighted with a solemnity that immediately filled me with dread. "Octavia and Echo are here," he confirmed, his voice heavy. Then came the pause, fraught with unspoken grief, before he delivered the words that seemed to freeze the very air around us. "But, um, I'm sorry. Bellamy's dead."

In that moment, standing in the blinding whiteness of this alien world, Gabriel's words reverberated through me, each syllable a hammer strike to my soul. The sorrow of death is indeed the most profound testament to love, a stark reminder of the bonds that transcend the physical confines of space and time, matter and energy. These bonds form the very essence of our existence, more real than anything else in our tangible world. Bellamy had been more than just a comrade; he was my brother in every sense that mattered. He had been my steadfast support through every trial and tribulation. Together, we had weathered storms of our own making, our paths diverging and converging in the relentless tide of life's complexities. We had both faltered, made mistakes, but our bond had always drawn us back together. The thought that he would not return this time, that our shared journey had reached its end, was unfathomable.

The anguish I felt was visceral, a physical agony that coursed through me. It was a testament to the profound impact of heartbreak, a biological phenomenon that manifests as tangible pain. My heart felt as if it had shattered into a thousand pieces, each fragment a memory, a moment, a shared dream now lost. This pain was akin to, if not surpassing, the agony I had endured as Lexa lay dying in my arms. It was a grief that consumed, that resonated in every fiber of my being. Behind me, I could hear Raven struggling to maintain her composure, her breaths hitching in a valiant effort to stifle her tears. Her emotional turmoil was a mirror to my own, a shared grief that connected us in our collective loss. In this stark, alien landscape, under the unfeeling gaze of a world indifferent to our plight, we stood together, united in our sorrow. The loss of Bellamy was not just a personal tragedy but a profound rupture in the fabric of our tightly knit group. In this moment, we were bound not just by our mission, but by our shared mourning, our mutual understanding of the irreplaceable void left by his absence.

The words from Miller were like an anchor, pulling me back from the abyss of my grief. "J-Jordan, Cass, hold the room," he commanded, his voice cutting through the heavy air. Time, which had seemed to stand still, lurched forward again.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and turned to face Miller. "Watch the door," I said, my voice more steady than I felt.