The train exhaled a deep, metallic groan as it screeched into the station — an old beast reluctant to stop after hours of trudging through the crooked valleys and forgotten forests of Drevenica. The windows were fogged, framing the outside world like a fading memory. A slow drizzle had begun, wrapping the small mountain station in a cloak of mist. The wind smelled of wet pine and nostalgia.
Adrian Varek stood by the exit, coat collar turned up against the cold, his breath forming brief ghosts in the air. He hadn't been here in ten years, not since the night he left everything behind — the town, the pain, the unanswered questions. His fingers brushed over the worn leather of the notebook tucked inside his coat. Inside were notes from his past life, but also a single line written in fresh ink just days ago:
She's not dead.
He stepped off the train.
The wood of the platform creaked under his boots. It was just past six in the evening, though the sky was already a darkening bruised purple. The mountains loomed behind the station, ancient and indifferent. Adrian paused a moment, letting the air hit him. Cold, clean, and heavy with silence. That silence — not absence of sound, but the feeling of something waiting.
There weren't many people around. Just an old porter with a limp and a couple who looked like they were escaping something themselves. Typical of Drevenica. People came here either to disappear or to forget.
He lit a cigarette, more out of habit than desire, and took a long drag. The smoke curled around his face, softening his features — angular jawline, weary eyes, a clean-shaven face that still looked too young to carry so much weight. The darkness under his eyes, however, told another story. One of sleepless nights and years of pretending the past was over.
A cab waited by the station. An old black car with a missing hubcap and a sleepy driver who gave Adrian a long stare but said nothing. Adrian threw his bag into the backseat and slid in beside it.
"Where to?" the driver finally asked, voice thick with local accent and cigarette smoke.
"North Pine Cabin. Near Lake Selia," Adrian said.
The driver frowned slightly, then started the car without another word. North Pine was secluded — too secluded for most. The kind of place people only visited when they needed to hide, heal, or hunt the truth.
As the car pulled away, Adrian looked out at the passing trees, their limbs skeletal in the mist. Shadows moved between them — or maybe just tricks of the fog. The road was narrow and winding, lined with wet leaves and moss-covered stones. It was both beautiful and unnerving.
He leaned his head back and let his mind drift.
Eva.
The name hit like an old scar reopened.
Ten years ago, she was everything — mystery wrapped in soft laughter, wild spirit in quiet skin. She had dreams bigger than this town, but never the desire to leave it. Then one day, she was gone. No trace. No clue. Not even a goodbye. Just an empty room, a cold bed, and a heartbreak that never truly healed.
The town had whispered. Suicide, maybe. Or she ran away with someone. Or worse. Much worse. But there was no body. No answers.
And then the letter came.
Three weeks ago, inside a plain white envelope with a crimson wax seal. The handwriting unmistakable. The signature — Eva's.
And the message:
"Drevenica remembers. Come before the frost sets in. I'll be waiting — where it all began."
The car jolted slightly as it climbed higher into the hills.
Adrian snapped out of his thoughts, eyes scanning the darkening woods. The driver finally spoke again, voice low.
"You from here?"
"Used to be."
The driver nodded like that explained everything. In Drevenica, it did. People who left rarely came back. And when they did, they carried ghosts.
They reached the cabin just as the sky turned black. Adrian paid in cash and didn't wait for change. The driver didn't wait to be thanked. The moment the suitcase hit the porch, the cab was already turning around, taillights vanishing like a dying memory.
Adrian stood before the cabin. It looked smaller than he remembered, the pine wood faded, the roof sagging slightly under years of snow and silence. But the door was the same — thick oak with a single, rusted handle.
He unlocked it and stepped inside.
Dust rose like breath from the floorboards. A faint scent of old smoke and pine needles clung to the air. The fireplace was untouched. The furniture, though covered in white cloth, remained exactly where it was. Nothing stolen. Nothing changed.
It was like the house had waited for him.
He dropped his bag and took off his coat. The air inside was colder than outside. He lit the fireplace, and the flames crackled to life slowly, casting warm shadows across the wooden walls. The light danced on an old photo on the mantel — him and Eva, both seventeen, smiling with stupid innocence.
He stared at it for a long time before finally sitting down with his notebook. He flipped to a blank page and wrote:
Day 1.
The air still knows her name.
Tomorrow, I visit the lake.
He paused, then underlined her name twice.