They didn't speak for miles.
The road twisted like a memory through the forest, the sky above heavy with early evening clouds. Trees lined the path, dark silhouettes pressed close together, as though guarding ancient secrets. Elira sat in the passenger seat of Ash's rusted jeep, the journals clutched tightly against her chest like something holy — or cursed.
The fire had swallowed the shop in under an hour. Firefighters said it was "electrical." A spark in the wiring. No foul play suspected.
But Elira didn't believe it. Neither did Ash.
She turned to glance at him. His jaw was locked tight, eyes fixed on the road like it was the only thing tethering him to the present.
"Ash," she said softly. "The fire. It wasn't random."
He nodded once. "No. It was a warning."
"To stop reading?"
"To stop remembering."
She pressed her fingers to the cover of the journal. "Too late."
They drove until the last of the paved roads gave way to gravel, then dirt. The sky had gone from grey to nearly black. When they reached the cabin — an old stone-and-timber place nestled between pine trees — it was quiet. No signs of life. Just the sound of the wind rustling the branches above.
Ash unlocked the door. Inside, dust clung to every surface, but the air felt untouched — preserved. Safe.
Elira stepped inside slowly, as though crossing into another time.
"This place…" she said.
"I used to come here with her," Ash replied. "Marian. She said it was the only place she could think clearly."
They lit candles and started a small fire in the hearth. No electricity. No signals. Just the flicker of flame and the crackle of burning wood.
Elira opened the journals again, laying them out side by side on a table.
"There's a code," she said suddenly. "See here — the first letter of every passage on the burned pages. They spell something."
Ash leaned in, eyes narrowing. "'Come to the river of names.'"
"What does that mean?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then, quietly, he said, "There's a place. Near here. Locals call it Whisperbrook, but the old name — the one from Marian's stories — was the River of Names. Supposedly, if you speak a true name aloud there, it echoes."
"Echoes how?"
Ash looked at her. "As if the person is still listening."
A silence fell between them.
Elira touched the journal's final, half-burned page. "What if Marian isn't gone?"
"You think she's alive?"
"I think she's waiting. Or maybe… trapped."
Ash stood. "Then we go tomorrow. At first light."
Outside, the wind began to rise.
Elira stared at the flames in the hearth. The way they moved, almost deliberately. Like they knew something. Like they wanted to tell her.
A sudden gust blew through the chimney, and the flames flared. Smoke curled upward and twisted into shape — just for a moment — forming a single word in the air before fading.
"Soon."
Elira's breath caught.
Ash turned. "What?"
"Nothing," she whispered. "Just the fire."
But she knew better.
The fire was speaking again.
And this time, it wasn't whispering.