A Promise Left Behind

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Chapter 4: A Promise Left Behind

The week dragged by.

Zayne went through the motions of living—working at the garage, grabbing coffee from the corner shop, tossing and turning through sleepless nights. But inside, everything was different now. Every second felt heavier, stretched thin by anticipation and confusion.

He tried to remember.

He tried so hard.

But his memories of that summer—of Mira, of her brother—were fragmented, like torn pages from a book he couldn’t find. Flashes came sometimes: laughter under a broken umbrella, muddy sneakers on a bus seat, a boy with bright eyes and a reckless smile daring him to race down the rain-slick streets.

But the rest was a blur.

Tuesday couldn’t come fast enough.

When it finally did, Zayne was waiting at the stop long before the bus even arrived. The night air was thick with mist, and though it wasn’t raining yet, the sky above rumbled low, like a warning.

The bus’s headlights cut through the fog. It hissed to a stop, but Zayne didn’t get on.

He waited.

And there she was—walking out of the mist like she belonged to it. Mira, red umbrella hooked over her shoulder, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat.

"You came," she said simply.

"Of course," Zayne said, voice rougher than he intended.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time.

“I thought maybe you wouldn't,” she admitted. “It’s hard to face things you don’t remember.”

Zayne took a step closer. “I want to know. I need to.”

Mira nodded, as if she’d expected that answer.

She led him away from the bus stop, down a side street slick with rainwater and old memories. The city seemed quieter here, the neon glow fading into muted blues and grays.

They stopped under a streetlamp where the light buzzed and flickered.

“This is where it happened,” Mira said, her voice so soft he almost missed it over the rising wind.

Zayne looked around. It was just an empty street. An old bench leaned against a crumbling brick wall. A storm drain gurgled nearby.

“What happened?” he asked.

Mira’s hand found the edge of the bench, tracing the cracked wood like it held pieces of her heart.

“My brother—Noah—he was reckless. Brave. Stupid sometimes,” she said, a fond smile ghosting her lips. “He liked dares. And that night... he dared you to follow him into the tunnels.”

Zayne’s blood ran cold.

Tunnels?

Bits and pieces rushed back—darkness, the metallic smell of wet concrete, laughter echoing off walls. A flashlight beam jerking wildly.

“You both went down there,” Mira continued. “But only one of you came back.”

Zayne staggered back a step, heart hammering against his ribs.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I would have— I would have done something—”

“You did,” Mira said, stepping toward him. “You ran for help. You promised to bring someone back. But by the time you did... he was gone.”

The rain started then, falling in gentle sheets, blurring everything.

Zayne clutched at his head. The memory crashed in like a broken tide—Noah’s voice yelling, the ground giving way, the roaring sound of water filling the tunnel. His own panic, his small legs carrying him faster than he’d ever run, screaming for someone, anyone to come.

But when they returned—only silence.

And an empty flood channel.

"I was just a kid," Zayne choked out.

"I know," Mira said, her hand finding his. "You were scared. You tried."

Guilt clawed at his chest, old and deep and suffocating.

"Why didn't I remember?" he asked, voice cracking.

"Because some memories," Mira whispered, "are too heavy for a child to carry alone. So you buried it. Until now."

Lightning split the sky, illuminating her face—full of sadness, but not blame.

Zayne squeezed his eyes shut, the rain soaking through his clothes, his skin, his bones.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words ripped from him.

"I know," she said.

The rain fell harder, but neither of them moved.