Trace #007 — The Trace That Spoke Back
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I hadn't touched the paper in days.
It sat at the bottom of my closet, quietly existing like something that had always been there — waiting to be remembered.
But something had changed.
The dream the night before hadn't faded like usual. It stayed with me. That hallway. That child. The way they didn't run, didn't flinch.
They watched.
And I had the feeling they weren't watching me.
They were watching the thing that was following me.
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It was 3:16 a.m. when I finally got up. The world was silent — that kind of quiet where even the air seems to hold its breath.
I turned on no lights.
I walked barefoot to the closet, opened the door, and sat down.
The paper looked smaller now.
Not because it had changed — but because I had.
This wasn't just another trace.
This was the beginning.
And maybe…
Maybe it wanted me to know.
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I reached out and touched it.
And the world changed.
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It wasn't a memory this time.
It was a mind.
I didn't just see. I felt.
Not emotion echoing through time — but presence.
A child's presence.
They were afraid, yes — but also aware.
> "You shouldn't be here."
I flinched.
It wasn't a voice. Not exactly. More like something being projected into my thoughts. Cold. Blunt. Careful.
> "You're not supposed to know yet."
I tried to respond, but there was no mouth to move, no voice to echo. Only fear. It moved like static through me — crackling, heavy, sharp.
The child wasn't hiding from me.
They were hiding with me.
From something else.
> "You'll lead it to me."
A burst of images — not memories, but warnings:
A staircase slick with blood.
A wall covered in folded papers like wallpaper.
A face made of shadows, standing outside a window, smiling.
And then a final word.
> "Run."
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I snapped back.
Sweat drenched my collar.
My fingers were locked into the carpet. I'd clenched them so tightly my knuckles bled.
---
The paper was still in front of me.
Unfolded now.
But not by my hand.
And written inside — for the first time ever — were words.
> "You're not the only one who remembers."
---
By the time the sun rose, I was at HQ.
Rey took one look at my face and didn't ask. Just handed me coffee and locked the door behind us.
"I traced it," I said.
"The paper?" he asked.
I nodded. "It wasn't just memory this time. It was aware. Someone else is linked to it. Someone still alive."
Rey blinked slowly. "You're saying the trace… communicated with you?"
"It warned me," I said. "And it wasn't just fear. It was control. They knew I was watching."
He looked down at the paper, folded now in a sealed case.
"Do you still think they're a witness?" he asked.
I hesitated.
Then: "No. I think they're something more."
---
Later that day, Rey dug up something that shouldn't have existed.
A restricted database — one even Internal Affairs couldn't access without approval.
It was an old record. Redacted.
But one word stood out, flagged under psychic-sensitive survivors.
> Subject 014: Emotion Carrier - Age 14 (presumed deceased)
Affiliated Trace Type: Memory-Dissonant / Reactive Class
Note: "DO NOT CONTACT. Severance attempted. Unstable residual link to Karl Case."
Rey leaned back.
"This file's fifteen layers below what I'm cleared to see."
I stared at the screen.
Subject 014.
A psychic child. Tied to my case.
And labeled "presumed deceased."
But if that was true…
Who had I just spoken to?
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We spent hours in silence, combing for anything else. There was nothing.
Until the system crashed.
Not just our terminal.
The entire building flickered.
Lights dimmed. Fans shut off.
And then every screen — every one in the floor — blinked to black.
One line appeared:
> "It's watching you now too."
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I felt it before I saw it.
A pressure in the room, like gravity tipping sideways.
Rey cursed and pulled his gun. "This isn't just a hacker."
And then… the power returned.
Just like that.
Everything back to normal.
No trace in the logs. No breach in the security system.
But the message stayed on my screen.
Burned in.
Not code.
Not text.
A trace.
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Rey stared at me. "What the hell is happening, Yushi?"
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Because I finally understood something:
It wasn't just the child who remembered the murders.
It wasn't just me.
The killer remembered too.
And he was starting to look back.
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That night, I locked every door.
Closed every blind.
Put the new paper inside a sealed drawer.
But I didn't sleep.
I couldn't.
Not when I knew someone else was out there — someone who had watched the same memories I had.
Someone who had survived.
And now… was warning me.
Not to save me.
But to keep it away from them.
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At 3:14 a.m., I heard it.
A soft knock.
Not on the door.
Not the closet.
The window.
Twelve stories up.
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To be continued…