Whisper in the Night

Chapter 26 : No one is Alive?

Author's POV:

The morning was already a relentless invasion of light, yet Kaira's eyes opened only to a thick, suffocating gray.

Her skull throbbed in time with a shallow heartbeat, and her throat was a raw, arid desert—the caustic residue of tears shed until there were none left to drain. For a long, suspended moment, she simply registered the heavy linen sheets and the familiar texture of the ceiling, a silent witness to a devastation she still hadn't absorbed. Her mind was a wasteland, littered with shards of memory and the ringing silence of last night's collision.

Her phone sat sentinel on the nightstand a sleek, black rectangle of indifference. No notification glowed. No message waited. No missed call suggested remorse or even confusion.

The silence was not empty; it was a heavy, deliberate accusation.

A dry, humorless huff too bitter to be called a laugh burned in her throat.

"Hide behind the dark screen, thats," she whispered, the bitterness grating against her vocal cords. "The textbook definition of a coward."

Her gaze finally drifted, taking inventory of the room. It was a perfect portrait of internal chaos: cushions ripped from the sofa, a lamp toppled near the dresser, and the crystalline glitter of shattered glass near the window, reflecting the sunlight like frozen, unforgiving tears. The air still held the sharp, metallic tang of spilled perfume, mingled with the stale salt of grief.

The greatest damage, however, was focused on the far wall. The diary shelf was brutally exposed. The empty spine-space where the stolen book had rested glowed like a fresh, unstitched wound—the precise location where the lie had been excised, leaving only truth and gore behind.

Kaira pushed herself upright. Her movements were stiff, like rusty machinery refusing command. The sheet pooled at her waist as she raised a hand, fingers raking through her tangled hair. Each tug of a knot was a small, necessary pain, a tether grounding her to the suffocating reality she desperately wished was just a bad dream.

She recognized the woman in the mirror, yet she didn't.

Pale skin, yes. Bloodshot eyes, certainly. Dark shadows bruised the delicate skin beneath her lashes, evidence of a storm that had raged until dawn. But lodged deep within the wreckage of her face the strained muscles, the cracked lips was a dangerous clarity. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, frightening calm. A quiet rage had settled, heavy and promising.

Without a sound, she swung her legs over the mattress and pushed herself to stand. The marble floor was a shock of chill against her bare feet, a cruel reminder of how warm her world had felt just forty-eight hours ago.

The shower hissed to life instantly, filling the air with hot, purifying steam. She stepped into the scalding spray, seeking the pain. It was a cleansing ritual performed in fire, washing away the salt and the sorrow, leaving only the bedrock of fury.

She pressed her palms flat against the ceramic tiles, bowing her head as the water hammered down.

The water could not wash away the faces of the people she called mother and father.

Are they murderers? The possibility was a venomous reality, spreading through her blood, poisoning every cherished memory. Was her whole life a staged performance? Had every act of kindness been a deliberate manipulation? 

The internal questions clawed at her chest until she emerged from the steam, trembling, but not from cold. The subtle, dangerous shift was complete.

Kaira walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors. Her hand passed over the soft fabrics, the comforting colors, the things innocent women wore. It settled instead on black.