We drove to the edge of town that night — me, Sam, Sarah. Back to the woods.
The place had changed. The well was gone. Buried.
But not the memory.
Sam walked ahead of us, flashlight in hand.
"There was no monster," he said. "No chair. No curse. Just guilt."
He stopped at a moss-covered stone. Kneeled. Knocked three times.
A hollow thud.
"This was it," he said. "The old bunker."
We helped him clear the debris. A rusty hatch opened. Cold air breathed up from below.
Inside, everything was how it was twenty years ago — the abandoned shelter where we used to play pretend.
And in the corner... a child's red bicycle.
Sarah gasped. "Eddie's…"
"No," Sam said. "Mine. The one you took turns riding after you locked me inside."
"I didn't know!" she cried. "We thought you left!"
Sam stared into her. "You chose to believe that."
That's when I noticed the wall — faint scratch marks. Names.
My stomach twisted. I stepped closer, heart thudding in my ears, and traced the letters with trembling fingers. Each name etched into the wood carried weight — a ghost of childhood guilt. Seeing my own name there, carved in with the others, felt like a verdict. Cold sweat gathered at the back of my neck. My name was there, sealed into a memory I had desperately tried to forget. I wasn't just a bystander. I was part of this. And someone had tried to erase Sam, not just from the shelter—but from our lives.
Eddie. Miguel. Sarah. Jack.
One name had been crossed out.
Sam.