Talk To Me

Chapter Two

Five years ago

Oliver had been staying at his grandmother's house since his vacation began. Nana's home had always felt more like a sanctuary than his father's house, and James never put up much of a fight about Oliver's choice.

His room, though spacious, felt gloomier than usual. A pale sliver of moonlight dripped in through a crack in the window's seal, casting eerie shadows against the black furniture—a large bed, nightstands flanking each side, a tall wardrobe, a sturdy desk, and a chair tucked neatly beneath it.

That deceivingly quiet winter night, Oliver lay curled under his blanket when a familiar sensation crept over him—a tickle deep in his belly, like an unseen hand reaching through him. A chill spread across his skin. His breath hitched. Instinctively, he bolted upright in bed, scanning the dimly lit room.

"Sleep, my boy. You're going to need it," a gentle voice cooed.

Oliver's eyes widened as he turned toward the familiar figure standing by his bed. She wore a white nightgown, her silvery hair braided loosely over one shoulder.

"Nana," he whispered, his throat tightening. He blinked and turned to the glowing digits on the nightstand's clock. "It's the middle of the night." He rubbed at his face, as if waking up properly would make the sight before him less surreal.

"I know, honey," Mary said softly. "Sleep. I'll wait until morning."

But Oliver knew better. The weight in his chest turned to something sharp and jagged as realization took hold. His gaze lingered on her—on the unnatural glow of her presence, on the way the air around her shimmered slightly, like mist caught in the moonlight.

"No... Nana, no—" His voice cracked, breaking under the force of sudden grief. His hands shot up to his head, fingers tangling in his messy curls.

"Oh, honey." She reached out, her hand ghosting over his hair, trying to comfort him the way she always had. But Oliver felt nothing. Her touch didn't reach him anymore.

He rocked back and forth on the bed, his old mattress creaking with each motion. The realization dug its claws in deeper. She was gone. And yet, she was here.

But maybe it wasn't too late. It couldn't be. He could fix this. Oliver threw the blanket off and bolted for the door.

"It's too late, Oli," Mary said, but he didn't listen. He was already running down the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the cold wooden floor. "Oli!" she called again, appearing beside him as he rushed toward the staircase.

"You—don't—know—that," he panted between desperate breaths.

The icy floor sent shivers up his spine, but he didn't care. His entire body hummed with a feverish urgency, driven by the sheer refusal to accept what was happening.

The wooden panels creaked beneath his weight, the walls lined with family portraits seeming to watch as he passed. Shadows stretched unnaturally under the dim glow of the hallway's lone nightlight.

Reaching the stairs, he took them two at a time, nearly tripping as he turned sharply to the right. His grandmother's room stood at the end of the hall. He slammed the door open with such force that the knob dented the green wall behind it. The door bounced back slightly, creaking on its hinges as he stepped inside.

Mary's bed lay undisturbed. She rested under the red blanket, her head tilted to one side, her face serene. Her skin—paler than usual. Her chest—too still.

"No, no, no." Oliver rushed to her side, grabbing her hand. Still warm. He could still save her.

He started CPR, his hands pressing firmly against her chest, his movements desperate and unsteady.