บททั้งหมดของ Love Didn’t Save Us. It Just Made the Fall Hurt More : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Elijah fixed his collar in the mirror. His hands were steady this time. That surprised him. “I don’t think they’re happy to see me,” he said to Gabe, who leaned against the bedroom doorframe. “They never were,” Gabe replied. “Even before the crash.” Elijah gave a small smirk. “Comforting.” “They think you’re a threat now. A ghost walking back into the kingdom.” Elijah grabbed his watch, slipped it on. “Then let’s haunt them.” The foundation’s boardroom was all glass and gold. Cold, sharp edges. The kind of place where smiles hid knives. Elijah stepped inside first. Gabe followed behind, silent but steady. Everyone turned. Twelve men and women sat around the long table. Some familiar faces. Some newer. But all watching like hawks. At the head of the table sat Dorian West, interim chair. Salt-and-pepper hair. Too polished. Too calm. “Elijah,” Dorian said with a slow smile. “Welcome back from the dead.” Elijah took a seat without asking. “Thanks,” he said simply. “Still fi

The drive was quiet. The hills were quiet, but not the kind of quiet that comforted. It was the sort that pressed against the ears, swallowing every trace of sound until the mind began inventing its own. The wind had long stopped, yet the grass swayed as though brushed by something unseen. Shadows pooled in the folds of the land, shifting when not watched directly. He had been there for days maybe longer. Always at a distance, always just high enough on the ridge to be outlined against the dull sky. Too far to see his face, too still to be a trick of the eyes. At first, it had seemed harmless just a shape in the distance, a solitary figure. But it never left. Not when the sun dipped, not when darkness erased everything else. It remained. Paths through the hills twisted and bent in ways memory couldn’t hold. Each turn seemed to return to the same view: that ridge, that figure. Moving closer felt impossible, yet somehow, he seemed nearer each time the eyes found him. The

Steam clung to the glass, blurring the world beyond. The mirror was blank at first only the faint outline of a shadow in the mist. Then, without warning, lines began to appear. Not quickly, but with a slow, deliberate drag, as if someone unseen traced each letter from the other side. The air thickened, the silence sharpening into something alive. Every curve of every letter seemed intentional, almost intimate. When the first word took shape, breath caught in the throat. It wasn’t a name. It wasn’t a warning. It was a question. The glass quivered beneath the rising steam, distorting the words as they grew. Each new letter landed like a heartbeat steady, inevitable. The message stretched wider, claiming more of the mirror until the reflection was gone entirely. It asked something impossible to answer. A question no one should ever be asked while standing alone. Fingers twitched at the side, aching to wipe it away, but the hand wouldn’t move. Something in the air held it

Elijah sat at the kitchen table, the flash drive lying in front of him like it could bite. He hadn’t slept. The same question looped in his head like a broken tape: Why was I the only one who made it out? He needed someone to talk to. Someone who wasn’t Gabe. So he searched the names of the other passengers who died on the plane. There were five. One stood out Mark O’Sullivan an investor, mid-40s, father of two. He’d read about Mark before. There had been a memorial in the papers. And a widow. Leah O’Sullivan. He didn’t know why, but something about her name felt heavy. Familiar. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something more. He found her contact through a business forum. She ran a small foundation in her husband’s name now. Public. He sent a message. Short. Careful. “My name is Elijah Vale. I was listed among the dead in the same crash that killed your husband. But I survived. I believe something about that crash was hidden. If you’d be willing to talk, I’d be g

The hotel wasn’t hard to trace. Elijah sat in the passenger seat of Gabe’s car, laptop balanced on his knees, his fingers restless against the trackpad. He’d uploaded the photograph the one that had been haunting him into a reverse image search. Within minutes, the screen lit up with matches. The Langston Royale, Singapore. High end. Discreet. The kind of place where billionaires held their affairs, where politicians signed dirty contracts in hushed voices, where secrets went to sleep beneath silk sheets. Elijah leaned closer, studying the glowing image. The hotel’s dark façade. The arch of glass above the entrance. The way the photo framed him as if caught mid step. He looked younger, sharper, less broken. Two months before the crash. Two months before his memory had been carved out like someone had cut it clean with a knife. “This was me,” Elijah whispered. The words trembled in the stillness of the car. “I just don’t know why I was there.” Beside him, Gabe shifted in the dri