Blackwell
Fading echoes R.D
The price of redemption
Prologue
Robert wakestothe soundofvoices. They’refaint at first, whispers blending into thestillnessofhis empty bedroom.His eyes dart around theroom, scanning the corners, butthere’s no onethere.Yet thesounds persist, growinglouder, more insistent.
He sits up, heartpounding, andcatches movement in the mirroracrossthe room.A face is staringback at him— hisface—butsomething feels… off. He leapsfromthe bed, thecoldfloor grounding himashetakes ahesitant step forward.
“Who areyou?”hedemands,staring at thereflection that doesn’t feel likehis.
Thefiguretilts itshead, mirroringhim but not quite.“I am you,” it says,its voicecalm, deliberate.“Butnot you.”
“Great.It’seither tooearly or toolatefor this,” he mutters under hisbreath, running ahandthrough his hair.“AndI’m waytoo soberfor it,eitherway.”
Thereflectionremains silent,unblinking,its stillness unsettling. Then it speaksagain,its tone cuttingthrough thehaze of hisconfusion.
“I’m you in theway that Ispeak thetruthsyou’ve tried to bury.”
He stares at themirrorina sleepyhaze, wonderingwhat it is he’s lookingat. Theentitysmirks. “You don’t believe me,doyou? Letmeprove it… Youkeep telling yourself that you hada normalchildhood, but we both know better. Thefighting, thedrinking, thedru—”
He grabsanempty bottle from thenightstandand throws it at themirror. Theglass shatters with asharp,satisfying crack.The face of theentityshimmersinthe shards,its eyes burning through thefragments,mocking him.
“Ah, fuck,I really likedthatmirror,”hethinks.The thought barely registersashestands there, breathless, staringatthe mess he’s made.
Butthe entity isn’tfazed.Itjusttilts itshead,asif amused by hisattempt to silenceit.
“Whatare youafraidof?”itasks, itsvoice now alow murmur.“Thetruth?Orlosingyour last connectionto thepast?”
He feelsa chillrun downhis spine. He didn’twantto face it, but thewords hang heavyinthe air. Thetruth. Theburiedtruth.
He shakes hishead, desperatefor some form of control. Butthe reflectioninthe brokenmirrordoesn’t change
it just keepswatchinghim,waitingfor an answer he’s not sure he cangive.
“Whatisityou want or areyou just alatereaction to a badacidtrip?”heasksthe entity,his voice sharp, but tingedwithfamiliarsarcasm.
Theentitymoves, its form shimmering in thejagged shards of glass. Thesmirk on itsface deepens, as if savoringthe discomfort,itstirs in him.
“Oh, Idon’twantanything. I’m just here to pass some time,”itsays, its voicedripping with amusement. “As fora badacidtrip… I’m surprisedyou even remember what that’s like.”
Theentitylaughs,a soundthatgratesonhis nerves more than it should.
He grits histeeth,tryingtoholdontothe illusion that this is just some baddream—somehallucination that will fade with themorning light.But as itseyesburnintohis, theweight of realitypresses in,harderthanbefore. He doesn’t knowifit’sthe entity itself,orsomething inside himfinally cracking, butsomething feelstoo real.Too… familiar.
“I remember more than youthink,” he mutters, hisgaze flickering to thebrokenmirror. “I wish Icouldjustwalk away.Pretend Ididn’tjustmakeascene with an object I loved.” He thinks to himself.
Theentitychuckles again, quieter this time,and then speakswith an almost fond tone.“That’s theproblem, isn’tit? Youremembertoo much.You buriedit, but here Iam. Waiting. Waitingtoremindyou of everything you’ve triedsohardtoforget.”
“I remember everything, but some things arebetterleft behind,” he mutters,his voice hollow.
Theentity’slaughter echoes,sharp andcold, fillingthe room.
“Oh, hiding from thetruth again?”Itslithersthrough the air, suffocatinghim.
He triestoshake it off, but theweightofits wordshangs heavy, making it harder to breathe.
Thinking to himself, Ineed to getout of here.Where did Ileavemyphone?Hehalf-sprintsacrossthe room, searchingfrantically through thechaos of clothesand scatteredbelongings.I don’tknow what I’mlooking for, but Iknow Ineed somethingtoanchorme, something that’llbreak this insanity.
Thephone,tangled in apileofshirts, finallyappears. He snatches it up,desperate to feel something—anything— resemblingnormal.
“Now what didI put that doctor’snameunder?”he scrollsquickly,eyesdarting overthe screen,tryingto focus.
“Looking forsomething, arewe?”The entity asks,its voice dripping with amusement. Thelaughter bubbles up again, fillinghis head,turning hisinsides cold. He freezes.The phone in hishandfeelsheavier than it should, as if it’s tauntinghim with hisown helplessness. He triestosteadyhis breathing, butthe wordsofthe entity cutthrough thesilence.
“You can run, but you can’thidefromme. Notfrom yourself.”
ChapterI
Robert jolted awakeasthe bus rumbledand hita pothole, thesuddenjoltsnapping himout of restless sleep.Heopenedhis tired eyes,the linesbetween dream andmemoryblurringinhis foggy mind. Fora moment, he satthere,tryingtopiece together what hadjust happened. Wasita nightmare, or somethingelse entirely?
Rubbing hiseyes, he turned hishead to thewindow. The glassreflected apaleversion of himself, but beyond it laythe skylineofthe oldcityinthe distance.The sun hung low, casting theplace in amix of warm light and long shadows, likea half-forgottenphotograph.
”Back to whereitall started, allthose yearsago,” Robert thought,his jawtighteningatthe flood of memories crashing into hismind.
Theparties.The friends.The thrills.
It wasn’t just thegood times, though.Other images came, darker ones, like shadowslurking in thecorners of hismemory. He closed hiseyesfor asecond, willingthe noise in hisheadtosubside, but thememoriesonlygrew louder.
Thelaughter at therooftopparties,the sound of stolen cashbeing counted late at night,and theadrenalineof thechase allplayedout like areel in hismind. Faces flickered, too—some vivid, others distortedbytime. Lilly’s smile wasthe sharpest,cutting through thehaze with abittersweet clarity that made hischest ache. He shifteduncomfortably in hisseat, feelingthe weight of it allpressingdownonhim.
“End of theline,”camethe driver’s voice, crackling over theintercom.
Robert glanced at theother passengers,but no one seemed to noticehim.Justa fewtired faces anda couple staringblankly at theirphones.
“Great,” he mutteredunder hisbreath, leaningback againstthe crackedvinyl seat.Heclosedhis eyes again, but therewas no escape from thenagging feeling clawingathis chest. Returningtothisplace wasn’t just a physical journey; it wasa reckoning.
Thecity grew closer,the buildings taller, thestreets busierasthe bus made its wayintothe heartof downtown.
”WhatamI even doing here?” Robert thought, resting hishead againstthe cool glass. Butheknew. He just wasn’t readytoadmit it yet.
He pressedhis hand to thepocketofhis coat,feelingthe worn edge of thefoldedpaper tucked inside.Itwas the name of aclinic,scrawledinhaste.A name he barely remembered until now:Turner.
Asighescaped him. He hatedthatheneeded this—hated that he’d letthings spiral to thepoint wherethere wasno choice buttocomeback.
Butdeep down,heknewitwasn’tjustabout theclinic.
It wasabout facing thecity itself.
Thebus pulledintothe stationwitha shudder, and Robert rose to hisfeet, pullinghis duffelbag from the overhead rack.Hehesitated fora moment at thetop of thesteps,staring out at thecity sprawled before him.
It looked thesame. It always did. Andyet,hefeltlikea stranger.
Stepping offthe bus,Robert inhaleddeeply, theair thick with amix of exhaust, fast food, andsomething faintly metallic.Itwas afar cryfromthe crispmountainair he’d left behind.
As he stood there, duffelbag slung over hisshoulder,he glanced downthe street.His oldneighborhood wasn’t far. He couldalmostpicture it—thecornerstore,the graffiti-coveredwalls,the park benchwhere he andLilly used to plan theirnextbig score.
Thememoriesstirred again, andhis jawclenched.
With adeep breath, he turned andstarted walking, his bootscrunching on thegravel-strewn sidewalk.The clinic wasn’t far.
As he walked,the city seemed to closeinaround him, each blockfilledwithghostsofthe lifehe’dleftbehind. It wasn’t just theplace—itwas theweightofall the things he couldn’tundo.
”You can run, but you can’t hide.”
Thewords echoedinhis mind, not hisown but avoice he couldn’tquite place.
AndasRobert kept walking, he couldn’thelpbut glance at hisreflectioninthe storefront windows, halfexpectingtosee somethingstaring back at him.
Robert’s thoughtsdrifted back to afew days ago, to the moment that changedeverything.
Thephone call.
It hadbeenlate—toolatefor anyrationaldecisionmaking—butthatnight wasn’t rational. Theworst part wasn’t theact of pickingupthe phone, nor theseconds spentdialing. It wasthe uncertainty,the gnawing sensationthathad burrowedintohis chestsince that night in hisroom. Theshatteringmirror, thevoice in his head,the confrontationwithhimself.
Thenot knowing. What wasreal?Whatwas fantasy?
He remembered theweight of thephone in hishand, his fingers tremblingashepunchedinthe number. The clinic hadbeena last resort,a safety nethe’davoided for years. Youdon’tneedhelp, thevoice in hismindhad whispered. Youjustneedtotough it out. Buthecouldn’t tough it out anymore.
Making that callhad takenevery ounce of strength he hadleft. Thesilenceonthe otherend of thelineasthe callconnected hadbeen deafening. He’d almost hung up, almost convinced himselftodropthe phone andwalk away,but asteady, professionalvoice hadanswered before he could.
“TurnerBehavioral Clinic,how mayI assist you?”
He’d stammeredthrough theconversation, hiswords disjointed,unsure. Howmuchshouldhesay?
Howmuchwouldtheyjudge himfor?But thevoice on theother enddidn’tflinch, didn’tpress fordetails.By thetimethe appointment wasset,the dread in hischest hadshifted into somethinghehadn’tfeltinyears relief.
Now, back in thecity, that relieffeltmorelikea distant echo, drownedout by thememoriesthreatening to spill
over. Thegood, thebad—everythinghe’dburiedwas here,waitingfor him.
As he walked through thestreets,his eyes flickeredfrom one familiarlandmarktothe next.Eachone held astory, apiece of thelifehe’dtried to leavebehind. Some of thosememoriesbrought aghostofa smiletohis lips,but others made hisstomach churn.
This placewas aparadox:bitterand sweet,comforting andsuffocatingall at once.
“Let’s just keep alow profile,” Robert mutteredunder hisbreath, clutchingthe strapofhis duffelbag.“No need to draw toomuchattention.”
Butevenashesaidit, he felt theweight of unseen eyes.
Thecity might’vestayedthe same,but Robert knew betterthantothink he’d go unnoticed forlong.
As Robert approached thehotel,his instinctstuggedat himtotakethe side entrance. He hesitatedbriefly,a fleetingimpulse to retraceold paths, but shook it off. You’re not that guy anymore, he remindedhimself. Steelinghis resolve, he strode throughthe front entrance, stepping into aspace that took hisbreathaway.
Thelobbywas amasterpiece of modern design blended with old-worldcharm.Highceilings with intricate moldinggaveway to achandelierthatcasta warm,
inviting glow.Sculpturesstood like sentinelsinthe corners, theirforms both regaland surreal,while paintings adornedthe walls,eachone tellingits own story.
Robert found himselflostinadmiration, hiseyestracing thecurve of amarblestatuethatseemedtoreach forthe sky. It wasa farcry from theplace he remembered,back when this hotelwas just asteppingstone forthose passingthrough thecity. They’d trulytransformed it into somethingremarkable.
Then he felt it—apresence. Someonewas watching him.
Snapping out of hisdaze, Robert turned sharplytofinda young bellhop standing nearby, hisuniform crispand his expression polite but curious.
“May Ihelpyou?”the bellhop asked, hisvoice steady, though hisgazebetrayeda flickerofuncertainty,asifhe wasn’t quite sure what to make of Robert.
Robert sized himupinstinctively. Young, fit, alert, he thought.Old habits diehard. Fora moment,the streetwise instinctsofhis past took over,assessing the boy as if he were sizing up amark—or athreat.
Thebellhop shiftedslightly, hisprofessionalmask faltering just enough to remind Robert that he’d been standing theretoo long, silent.
“Uh, yes,”Robert stammered, shakingoff theold reflexes that hadcrept back in.“I’mcheckingin. Sorry,I wasjustadmiringthe art.”
Thebellhop smiled, thetension dissolving. “It’s impressive,isn’t it?Theyredid thelobby about five yearsago brought in some localartists forthe sculptures. If you’re interested,there’s abooklet at thedeskabout therenovations.”
Robert nodded,though hismindwas elsewhere. The briefencounter hadunsettledhim more than he wanted to admit. Focus, he told himself. This is just ahotel.Just anothernight.Keep your head down.
“Thank you,” Robert said finally,brushingpastthe bellhop toward thefront desk.
Butashereached thecounter,hecouldn’tshake the feelingthatthe young man’seyeslingeredonhim,as though he sawsomething in Robert that Robert himself couldn’tquite explain.
Robert closed thedoor behind him, lettingthe lock click into place as he sethis bagdown. Theroom wasmodest but elegant, with warm tonesand afaint scentof lavenderlingering in theair.Yet somethingabout it set himonedge.
It wasn’t thedécor or thelayout—itwas thefeeling.
Thefamiliarity naggedathim likea splinter in hismind. He scannedthe room,his eyes dartingfromthe window to thebed,tothe dresserand thewalls.Why doesthis place feel like déjà vu turned up to eleven?
Andthenithit him.
“No,” Robert muttered, hisbreathcatching. “This room…Itcan’t be.”
Panicsurgedasmemoriesbegan to surface, vividand unwelcome.Heboltedacrossthe room,yanking paintings offthe walls, theirwirehangers clanging loudlyagainst thedrywall. He crouched to peer under thebed,his pulse poundingasthoughhewereracing againstsomeunseenclock.Nothing.
ButRobert wasn’t deterred.His eyes landedonthe desk, andhetorethrough its drawers, riflingpastthe clean hotel stationery andbrochures as though he were digging fortreasure—or abomb. Nothingthere,either.
Then hisgazefellonthe beditself. Amemorystirred, sharpand insistent. He droppedtohis knees andreached behind theheadboard,his fingers runningalong the smoothwoodenpanelsuntil—there.
Alooseboard.
With aquick jerk,Robert prieditfree. Hisheartthudded in hischest as he reached inside thedark, narrow space.
Hisfingers brushedagainst fabric,coarseand unmistakable.
Pullingitfree, he found himselfstaring at an oldcloth bag, its once-vivid colornow fadedwith time.
“After allthese years…”Robert whisperedtohimself, turningthe bagoverinhis hands.“It’s stillhere.”
Hismindraced as he setthe bagonthe bedand untied thestring. Inside were remnants of alifehethought he’d left behind:a smallbundleofcash, worn from use; a pocketknife with initials etched into thehandle; anda fadedPolaroidphotooftwo kids—one boy andone girl—smilingwith mischief in theireyes. Lilly.
Histhroattightened as thememoriescamerushing back. He remembered stashing this baginthe wall allthose yearsago, thinking it wouldbesafer here than anywhere else.But forittostill be here?
Robert’s brow furrowed.“Ithink someone’s keeping tabs on me,” he muttered underhis breath.
He turned thebag inside out,checkingfor anything that might explainwhy it wasstill here.Nonotes,nosigns that anyonehad disturbedit. Yetthe uneasyfeeling gnawedathim.
Whywouldtheyput me in this exactroom?
Robert paced, running ahandthroughhis hair,his mind workingovertime. Thehotel hadchangedhands,been remodeled—itshould’ve been impossiblefor anyone to connect himtothisroom.And yet, here he was, holding apiece of hispastthatsomeone either deliberately left untouchedordidn’tknowexisted.
Neither option felt comforting.
He satonthe edge of thebed,the bagstillclutchedinhis hands,his mind circling thesamethought:Isthisa coincidence, or is someonetryingtosendmea message?
Theevening draggedon, theticking of theclock on the wall arelentlessreminderofthe passinghours.Robert paced theroom, thebag of oldtreasures lyingopenon thebed like arelic from anotherlife. Everyfew steps, hiseyeswould dart back to it,asifitmight vanish if he lookedawayfor toolong.
Hismindraced,tryingtopiece together thepuzzle. The room,the bag, thememories—it allfeltliketoo much to be coincidence.
“Noone knowsI’m back in town,” he muttered, his voice lowand tenseasherubbedthe back of hisneck.
“Everyone’s either in prison, movedaway, or dead.”
Thewords felt hollow,morelikeanattempttoconvince himselfthananything else.And yet, theuneaselingered, coilingaroundhim like ashadow he couldn’tshake.
Ienstadpräglad av mörkeroch förfall kämpar Robert, en man som plågas av sitt förflutna,för att finna en vägmot försoning.Hans inredemoner, personifieradeavden mystiska Jester, hotar att dra honom djupareini avgrunden.När han möter Yulia, en ung kvinna med egna sår,får han en chans att göra skillnadmen också en påminnelseom det han försöker fly
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