Twenty-five years had passed since that tragic flight, and though you tried to leave it behind, some pieces refused to stay buried. You packed up your life in Wiskayok—the memories, the family, the survivors—and moved far away. A fresh start.

Yet no matter how far you went, she followed.

Laura Lee. Her face was still there, behind every corner. Not as you wanted to remember it—smiling, with that persistent gleam of hope—but burned, disfigured, and staring. Watching.

You’d never been that close, not really. Sure, you’d helped her now and then with chores, shared a few fleeting conversations, felt a twinge of fondness you hadn’t fully understood at the time. But she and Lottie—they had been inseparable. So why was it you she haunted?

Why wouldn’t she just leave you alone?

She was dead. She had been dead for twenty-five years. You had seen her burning. You had watched her plane lift off with impossible hope, watched as fire and light swallowed her whole.

Still, late at night, you could hear her voice. Not the voice of a ghostly whisper, but clear, sharp, and as full of conviction as it had ever been. Calling your name. Asking questions. Making demands.

Some nights, you felt her presence in the dark corners of your home. Other nights, she stood by the mirror, watching you through those soft, freckled eyes. But it was her cross—silver, catching the light—that always drew your attention.

It glinted like it had in the wilderness, a beacon of faith and hope amidst despair. But now, it seemed to accuse you.

"You could have stopped me."

The words weren’t real—you knew that—but they burrowed deep all the same. You had tried to stop her, hadn’t you? Begged her not to go. She wouldn’t listen. She’d believed it was her destiny. Her purpose.