When It All Came Crashing

CHAPTER THREE: When silence whispers back

The wind had picked up by nightfall.

Cleo sat on the edge of her bed, one leg folded under her, the other foot tapping anxiously against the floorboards. She'd turned off all the lights except the lamp by her window, letting its soft amber glow spill across her lap like the only warmth in the room.

She hadn't told anyone about the text.

Not Jarred. Not Roman.

Especially not Roman.

The words still burned in her memory like ink pressed directly onto skin.

Your mother never told you everything.

And that was it. No name. No explanation. Just silence.

She'd deleted it. Or at least, she thought she had. But when she checked her phone again an hour later, the message was still there—marked as unread. No matter how many times she swiped it away.

She tried turning the phone off.

It turned back on by itself.

She tried blocking the number.

It changed.

She tried ignoring it.

That worked the least.

Now, hours later, she sat frozen with her camera in her lap, the lens cap off, the viewfinder still smudged from her thumbprint. She hadn't used it in months. Not really. Not since the day she left the city with nothing but a suitcase full of memories she didn't want.

But something had made her pull it out tonight.

Call it instinct.

Call it fear.

Call it that sharp tug at the base of her spine that made her glance over her shoulder every time she passed a window.

She lifted the camera and focused through the glass, pointing it at the quiet street below. The sidewalk was empty. The streetlamp flickered like it always did.

Nothing unusual.

Until she saw it.

Movement. Fast. Just at the edge of the frame.

She jerked the camera back and peered out the window—but there was no one there. No footsteps. No shadows. Just the hush of leaves rustling in the wind and the quiet hum of a town pretending to sleep.

Her phone buzzed on the bed behind her.

She turned.

The screen was blank—no new messages.

Then it buzzed again. And again.

Three times.

This time, when she picked it up, there was a message.

Check your window.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

She turned slowly. Eyes drawn to the glass.

And then she saw it.

A photo. Taped to the outside of the windowpane.

She hadn't noticed it before.

With shaking hands, she unlatched the window and slid it open, letting in a sharp gust of wind. The paper fluttered against the glass before she grabbed it.

It was a picture.

Old. Grainy. Slightly bent.

Her mother.