Shadows of the Past

Shadows of Guilt

The walk back to the police station was thick with silence, tension hanging in the air between them. Thomas walked ahead, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the sadness in his eyes hidden but unmistakable.

Behind him, Cillian followed, his senses on high alert as he scanned the fog for any movement. Yet he couldn't help but keep an eye on Thomas, his curiosity sparking with unasked questions that burned at the edge of his lips. He wanted to break the silence, to understand, but he knew that any attempt would be met with the same quiet, impenetrable wall.

When they arrived, Thomas sank into a chair, his gaze still lost in some distant, unreachable place. Cillian sat nearby, watching him closely before breaking the silence.

"Are you alright?"

Thomas looked up, meeting Cillian's eyes. For a moment, he held his gaze, hesitation flashing across his face before he looked away again.

"How could he do this?" Thomas's voice was quiet, filled with an aching disbelief.

Cillian frowned, leaning forward slightly. "What do you mean?"

Thomas swallowed, the pain clear in his voice. "I would never give my daughter away to a man like Father John. I would never... do anything to hurt my children."

Cillian's expression turned distant, his gaze dropping as he struggled with what he knew. He wanted to offer some reassurance, some answer that might ease Thomas's pain, but the weight of those words settled between them, making any response feel insufficient.

After a long pause, he simply nodded, a silent gesture of understanding and respect for the hurt Thomas carried. For now, words would have to wait, and they sat together in that heavy, unspoken understanding.

Exhaustion eventually overtook Cillian, his body surrendering as he slumped forward in his chair. His head rested on the desk, one arm draped over the surface, his breaths steady and deep. The tension of the night melted into restless sleep.

Thomas, however, refused to give in. His eyelids grew heavier with every passing moment, but he fought against the pull of sleep. The image of Ophelia haunted him, her voice echoing in his mind. She was out there, held against her will, and no matter how many times people told him it was hopeless, he couldn't—wouldn't—accept it.

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched as he racked his brain for a way to save her. Time felt like an enemy, slipping through his fingers, but as long as he was awake, he wouldn't let it win. He had to keep going.

A sudden noise shattered the silence, jolting Thomas upright in his chair. His heart pounded as his tired eyes scanned the room, his senses instantly on high alert.

Cillian stirred at the sound, groaning softly as he lifted his head from the desk, blinking groggily. "What was that?" he muttered, his voice rough from sleep.

Thomas didn't answer immediately, his gaze darting toward the door. His mind raced with possibilities—had someone found them? Was it a lead, or worse, a threat?

He rose slowly to his feet, every muscle tense. "Stay here," he whispered, his voice low but firm. Without waiting for a response, he moved toward the noise, determined to uncover its source.

Thomas moved cautiously, each step deliberate, his breath trembling as fear gnawed at him. The dim light in the hallway cast long, eerie shadows, and the faint rustling ahead sent chills down his spine. His fingers gripped his gun tightly, the weight of it unfamiliar and unnerving, as he held it shakily in front of him.

The sound grew louder as he approached one of the offices. Papers rustled, a chair creaked, and something heavy thudded against the floor. Thomas swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and paused outside the door. His heart raced, and for a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his nerves.