Shadows of the Past

The following morning, the city felt heavier. The streets bustled with the same impatient rhythm—horns, hurried footsteps, the smell of burnt coffee—but to Daren, it all seemed distant, like he was moving inside a half-remembered dream.

The figure on the bridge hadn’t been a trick of the light. He knew that now. The same eyes from the underground ring, the same weight pressing against his chest as if his past had followed him home.

At the café where he sometimes worked mornings, Kai burst through the door, grinning wide. “Man, last night was wild, huh? You disappeared on me after the fights.”

Daren forced a nod, avoiding his friend’s gaze as he wiped down the counter. “Yeah… I had somewhere to be.”

Kai leaned against the counter, smirking. “With Asla?”

Daren stiffened but said nothing. Kai chuckled, taking it as confirmation. “Good. You need to loosen up. That girl keeps you on a leash too tight, man. Life’s too short to be—”

“Stop.” Daren’s voice was sharper than he intended. He set the rag down and finally looked at him. “She’s not the problem.”

Kai raised his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Relax. I was just joking.”

But Daren didn’t relax. The notebook’s words haunted him: Not all friends are meant to last. The doubt gnawed at him, louder now, like a clock ticking down to something inevitable.

Later that day, when his shift ended, Daren returned home. His mother’s voice called from the kitchen.

“You’ve been out late again,” she said, her tone weary. “Your father was the same. Always disappearing at night, leaving me to wonder.”

Daren froze. “Dad?”

She sighed, setting a kettle onto the stove. “He used to vanish into the city for hours. Said he was working, but he never told me where. When you came home late last night, I swear for a moment it felt like I was looking at him again.”

His chest tightened. His father had died when he was twelve. The memories were blurry, patched together from photographs and silence. His mother rarely spoke of him, and when she did, it was with guarded distance.

“Did he…” Daren hesitated. “Did he ever mention anyone watching him?”

Her eyes flicked to him, startled. For a moment, the kettle’s rising whistle filled the room, shrill and unbearable. She turned the knob too quickly, steam hissing.

“You shouldn’t go digging into shadows, Daren,” she said, her voice low, almost trembling. “Some things are better left alone.”

But he couldn’t leave it alone. Not anymore.

That night, when the city fell quiet, Daren opened his notebook again. He expected blank pages, his own restless handwriting. Instead, he found something new scrawled in the margins—letters curling in black ink he swore hadn’t been there before.

Your father walked the same path. The watchers know your name. Find the truth, or it will find you first.

Daren’s hand shook as he closed the notebook. The hope he’d felt on the bridge with Asla was still there, but now it was overshadowed by something colder, older.

The shadows of his past were not gone. They were just beginning to stir.

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