The asylum had been closed for decades, swallowed by vines and time. Aria stared up at it, every instinct screaming to turn around.
But she couldn't.
She had to believe Amara was alive. And if this was where she'd gone to escape… maybe she'd left something behind.
They entered through a broken window. Glass crunched under their feet. The air was damp, metallic, thick with the smell of mold and rust. Aria's flashlight flickered weakly—barely enough to light the decayed hallway ahead.
Graffiti coated the walls. Names. Slurs. Warnings.
DON'T LOOK BACKSHE'S STILL HERENOT SAFE AFTER DARK
"I used to think these were just urban legends," Xander murmured.
"They're always based on something," Aria replied, voice tight.
They moved in silence, following the corridor until it opened into what must've once been a common room. The ceiling had collapsed in places, letting moonlight spill across the debris.
That's when they saw it.
A camp.
A cot.
Cans of food. Books stacked neatly. A journal on the floor.
Aria rushed forward, heart catching in her throat. The blanket on the cot was clean. The food was recent.
"Someone's been here," she whispered.
Xander knelt by the journal, flipping through pages.
"Handwriting's hers."
Then a sound made them both freeze.
A creak.
From above.
Not the building shifting. A footstep.
They turned slowly.
A shadow moved across the upper level, just for a moment.
Then a voice.
Low. Female. Hoarse with disbelief.
"…Aria?"