She remembered the sunlit fields—the laughter, the wind, the chase.

“Catch me, Daddy!” she’d called, legs flying across the earth. His footsteps pounded behind hers, full of joy.

Then, silence.

She turned.

An arrow.

His chest.

A smile, frozen.

Her scream never came.

Now, years later, she sat behind a desk, staring through computer screens. The room buzzed softly with machines and murmurs, but they barely registered. Memories did.

They always came like this—uninvited.

Figures crept in:

Doubt first, brushing her skin like frost.

“Cursed,” it murmured. “Trouble follows you.”

Pain followed, grinning.

“You laughed that day,” it said, voice rusted and sharp.

Deceit leaned in, whispering,

“They don’t trust you. They never did.”

Hatred peeled itself from her shadow.

“You’re alone,” it growled. “And you deserve it.”

Regret circled close.

“What if you’d turned sooner? Just a second. You might’ve seen.”

She gripped the edge of her chair. “Stop,” she said.

But they only grew louder.

“You let it happen.”

“Too slow.”

“Too happy.”

“Too blind.”

Her breath hitched. “No. It wasn’t me.”

But they didn’t care.

Then—a knock.

She blinked. The air cleared. The voices were gone.

Her coworker stood in the doorway, brows drawn.

“You alright? You looked kind of... distant.”

She forced a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He nodded and walked off.

She sat still. The hum returned. The lights. The ordinary.

But deep down, the voices hadn’t gone.

Not really.

They were just waiting.