I lock eyes with him. His pupils aren’t pupils—they’re swirling silver, like mercury in water. A drop rolls down his cheek, but the air is dry inside the bus. His lips part, and the voice that comes out isn’t one voice. It’s two, layered, whispering in unison: "You shouldn’t have listened."
My phone buzzes against my thigh. The voicemail plays again—static, then the sound of water, then my father’s voice, but wrong. Too slow. Too wet. "Evelyn… don’t… come… back…" The bus slows. The driver’s hands don’t move, but the wheel turns on its own.
And then the fog outside isn’t fog. It’s water, pressing against the windows, trying to get in.