Trace #005 — What Fear Remembers
Morning crept in like a stain through the blinds. I hadn't slept.
The break room was quiet, too quiet. Just the hum of the vending machine and the fading whisper of something that might've been a dream.
I hadn't moved since last night.
The paper still sat on the table, untouched. But it didn't feel dormant. It felt like it had been watching me while I dozed off — like a predator waiting for the prey to blink first.
I didn't touch it again.
Rey walked in carrying two coffee cups and the smell of smoke and asphalt.
"You didn't go home," he said, handing one over.
I took it without a word.
He didn't ask if I was okay.
We were past that now.
---
We sat at the desk, scanning old records in silence. No leads. No names. Just a thickening sense of repetition — the kind that tells you someone has done this before. That they'll do it again.
Then a message arrived in Rey's inbox.
[ARCHIVE REQUEST: COLD FILE 012-9 – UNLISTED TRACE FOUND]
It included an image attachment. No sender name. Just clearance code.
Rey clicked.
It was another folded piece of paper — like the others. Same shape. Same blankness. Same oppressive presence through the screen.
But this one was dated.
Ten years ago.
The tag read:
Recovered at Crime Scene – Karl Residence
Date: March 18, xx years prior
Status: Sealed / Misfiled
My hands went cold.
"There was a trace object at my house," I said quietly. "All this time… and no one ever told me."
Rey stared at the screen, jaw clenched. "It wasn't in any of the public records."
"It should've been," I said. "I've gone through every page. Every report."
He looked at me. "Then someone buried it on purpose."
---
The Archives Division sat deep beneath HQ — cold, windowless, quiet.
Rey had to pull strings to get us in. The man on duty didn't ask questions when he saw the file number. He simply nodded and pointed.
The box was smaller than I expected. Plain cardboard. Yellowed label. No warnings. No hazard stamps. Just time-stained tape.
Inside it was an evidence envelope.
And inside that...
The paper.
Folded.
Unwritten.
But filled with something heavier than any ink.
Even sealed inside plastic, I could feel it.
---
I sat across from it. Took a breath. Let my fingers hover just above the surface.
Rey stood behind me, silent.
And then, contact.
---
It wasn't like the others.
The fear here wasn't sharp. It wasn't active.
It was old.
Cold.
Buried deep in dust and time and silence.
And beneath it all, one emotion pulsed like a heartbeat:
> Helplessness.
The kind a child feels when they know something is wrong, but no one will believe them.
> "Mom?"
"Dad…?"
"What's happening?"
Whispers, half-heard. A room full of shadows. Footsteps down the hall. A scream — not violent, not loud. Just final.
And then—
The paper was slipped beneath a door.
My door.
Not to mock.
Not to threaten.
It felt more like… a message.
But from who?
The killer?
No.
Someone else had left it behind.
---
I pulled my hand back.
I was shaking.
"Yushi?" Rey asked.
"There was someone else there," I whispered. "The killer wasn't alone."
He raised an eyebrow. "Accomplice?"
"Maybe," I said. "Or a witness. Someone who saw it happen."
He looked down at the folded paper. "And this? What did it say?"
"It didn't speak," I answered. "It remembered."
---
We took the paper to the forensics floor.
No prints. No DNA. No fibers. Again.
But Rey had the tech run an atmospheric scan — a residual trace reading, something they only did for psychic-sensitive objects.
The result came back flagged:
Trace Detected: Emotion Type — FEAR / REMORSE / PROTECTIVE INSTINCT
Intensity Level: RED (Severe)
Source Approximation: Human / Minor / Approx. Age 10–14
I stared at the last line.
A child.
Someone my age.
Back then.
Rey looked at me. "You think this is your trace?"
I shook my head. "No. I don't remember this paper. Not at all."
"Then someone else was in that house," he muttered. "And they felt everything."
---
We spent the rest of the day going through witness lists from ten years ago. There were barely any.
Neighbors. One ex-cop who lived across the street. A grocery clerk.
No mention of another child.
Rey paced the room, frustrated. "It doesn't add up. If someone else was there, why hide it? Why leave that paper? And why bury the evidence?"
"To keep them safe," I said.
He stopped. "Who?"
I didn't know.
But deep down, something in me whispered a possibility I wasn't ready to say out loud:
> What if they're still watching?
---
That night, I sat on my apartment floor.
The lights were off. The window open. Cold wind curling through like it had something to say.
I held the old paper in my hand.
Not to trace it.
Just to feel it.
It was like holding a moment in time. Like someone had poured everything they couldn't say into it and hoped the message would survive.
What fear remembers…
It's not the death.
It's not the scream.
It's the moment before — the silence when you still hoped it might stop.
I closed my eyes.
And for a second, I thought I heard breathing that wasn't mine.
Then — a knock.
Three soft taps.
From inside the closet.
---
I stood.
Moved slowly.
Hand on the closet handle.
My heart wasn't racing.
It was silent.
Too silent.
I opened the door.
Nothing inside.
Just coats. Empty hangers. A dust-covered box.
And at the bottom of the box…
Another folded paper.
---
To be continued...