Chapter 15 What's in a name

Chapter 15 What's in a name
(Samara p.o.v)


I'm not running this time. That is the first thing that feels wrong.

I stand in the center of a clearing, my feet planted in damp grass that chills through the soles of my shoes. The forest rings me in a wide, uneven circle, trees crowding close as if they've leaned in to watch. Their branches knit together overhead, blotting out most of the sky.

The air is heavy, wet earth, old leaves, the promise of rain, and beneath it all, something sharp and metallic that clings to the back of my throat.

The shadows around the treeline move.
They don't lunge. They don't seize me. They slide along the ground in slow, deliberate arcs, stretching thin and then thickening again, like spilled ink with a will of its own. They whisper as they circle, voices layered and indistinct, close enough to hear but never close enough to understand.

I turn slowly, heart thudding, trying to keep track of all of it.

"Okay," I say out loud, surprised at how steady my voice sounds. "What is happening."

The forest does not answer.
Then I see him.
Jesse stands at the far edge of the clearing, caught between shadow and moonlight. His posture is loose, almost slack, hands hanging at his sides instead of clenched into fists. His dark hair falls into his face, softening him in a way that feels unfamiliar.
He looks calm.
Not guarded. Not sharp. Just… settled.

"Jesse?" Relief and unease knot together in my chest. "Do you know what this is? Why we're here? Why there are—" I gesture uselessly at the moving dark. "—shadows?"

He lifts his head and meets my eyes but there is a darkness in them that makes him look frightening inhumane.

"It's okay," he says. His voice is low, even, almost kind. "You don't need to be afraid."

Something tightens inside me.

"That's not comforting," I say. "That's what people say right before something terrible happens."

A faint smile curves his mouth as he starts toward me.

"It's going to be fine," he says. "Just come with me."

He walks, but the distance between us refuses to close. Each step feels absorbed by the space itself, the clearing stretching and thinning.

My skin prickles.
Light blooms behind me.
Warm. Golden. Familiar.
I turn. Derrick stands on the opposite side of the clearing, wrapped in a soft glow that presses the shadows back just far enough to breathe.
He looks solid, anchored. Real in a way that makes the rest of my world feel like it might fall apart without him in it.
My shoulders sag the instant I see him.

"Derrick."

He starts walking toward me too.
The ground shifts beneath my feet, the clearing warping as both of them move, Jesse from one side, Derrick from the other, neither drawing any closer no matter how long they walk. The air between us hums with tension, like I'm caught between two forces pulling in opposite directions.
The shadows whisper again.

"Josephine."

I flinch hard.

"No," I snap. "That's not my name. My name is Samarra. I don't know who you're looking for."

The shadows tighten their circle, voices rising, the sound more insistent now.
Jesse stops. He reaches his hand toward me.

"Josephine," he says, and the gentleness is gone. His voice is firm. Certain. "Let's go home."

Confusion slams into me, sharp and disorienting.

"Home?" I repeat. "What are you talking about?"

I turn desperately toward Derrick. "What does he mean?"

Derrick doesn't stop walking.
He looks at me with an expression I've only seen a handful of times before, not anger, not fear.
Warning.
He shakes his head once, slow and deliberate.
The shadows surge closer.

My chest tightens, breath stuttering as panic starts to claw up my spine.

"I'm not Josephine," I say, the words cracking. "Why does no one understand that?"

Jesse steps forward again, his hand still outstretched.

"You are," he says simply. "You just don't remember yet."

I stumble back, instinct screaming, and turn fully toward Derrick.

"Help me," I say, reaching for him, the plea ripping out of my throat.
He opens his mouth to answer—
And I wake up.



I bolt upright with a gasp, heart racing, lungs burning like I've been running full speed. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The forest clings to me, shadows whispering at the edges of my thoughts.
Then I see pink walls.
String lights.
Casey's room.

"Sam," Casey says urgently. "Hey. Sam."

Brooklyn is sitting up on the mattress on the floor, eyes wide and glassy. Megan clutches her blanket to her chest, knuckles white.

"You were talking in your sleep," Casey says. "Like… scream talking."

My throat is painfully dry. "About what."

She hesitates. "About Jesse. And Derrick. You kept saying their names. And…" Her eyes flick away. "Josephine?"

My stomach drops.

"I was just dreaming," I say too fast.

"You sounded really scared," Megan says quietly.

Casey shifts closer, worry etched into her face. "You were telling someone not to take you somewhere."

I shake my head, trying to clear the lingering fog. The necklace at my throat is warm again, faint, steady, grounding me like a tether.

"I'm fine," I insist. "Just nightmares."

Casey watches me for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. You scared us."

"Sorry," I murmur.

She squeezes my hand. "You're awake now. And you're safe."

I lie back down, staring at the ceiling as the room slowly settles, breaths evening out around me.
The shadows are gone.
But the weight they left behind isn't.
And no matter how hard I try, I can't stop thinking about the way Jesse said that name
Like it belonged to me.

Casey's mom, Heather, makes breakfast like she is feeding a small army.
There are pancakes. Real ones. Not the sad frozen kind. Eggs. Bacon. A bowl of fruit that looks like it was arranged with intention.

The kitchen smells warm and comforting and aggressively normal, which feels unfair considering I spent the night being psychologically stalked by whispering shadows.

Heather hums as she moves around the stove, hair pulled back, slippers on.

"Everyone sleep okay?"

Brooklyn nods enthusiastically. Megan mumbles something around a mouthful of pancake. Casey shoots me a look, checking in.

"I'm good," I say quickly. "Just a nightmare."

Heather smiles sympathetically. "I guess that's normal. Unfamiliar spaces always gave me the creeps too."

I am not sure unfamiliar spaces were the problem, but I let it go.

We eat and talk about nothing important. Cheer practice. A movie Megan wants to see. Whether the weather is going to turn again. I mostly listen, poking at my food and trying not to think about clearings or shadows or the way Jesse said that name like it belonged to him.

The doorbell rings.
Casey is on her feet immediately. "That's Derrick."

Of course it is.
She opens the door before anyone else can move. Derrick stands on the porch, jacket on, hair still a little damp from the mist. He looks… better. Not just upright. Himself. The tightness I did not even realize I was carrying loosens.

Heather appears beside Casey. "You must be Sam's brother."

"Yes, ma'am," Derrick says politely. "Derrick."

She beams. "It's so nice to finally meet you."
Casey is already hanging off his arm like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"You look way better," I say from the kitchen doorway.

He glances at me and smiles. "Told you."

On the drive home, he hums under his breath, something soft and familiar. He asks about the sleepover. The girls. The pancakes. I answer in fragments, watching the road slide by.

I'm hunched over the kitchen table, pencil smudging graphite into the side of my hand, when the light above me starts flickering again.

On. Off. On. Off.

Like it's auditioning for a horror film.
I squint up at it, shading the curve of a jaw I've been trying to get right for ten minutes.

"It definitely adds ambience," I say, deadpan. "Very spooky. Very haunted."

"It adds a headache," Catherine snaps from the counter. "And if it keeps doing that, I'm going to lose my mind." She turns and raises her voice. "Derrick!"

He doesn't answer right away. Of course he doesn't. He's leaned against the doorway, eyes glued to his phone, thumbs moving fast.

Texting Casey most likely.
The realization hits like a sour note in my chest, sharp, sudden, unwelcome. I press my pencil harder than necessary, the lead scratching.

"Derrick," Catherine repeats, louder.
He sighs like he's being pulled from something far more important and finally pockets the phone.
"What?"

"The light," she says, pointing. "Before it drives me insane."

He opens the junk drawer, rummages, and pulls out a spare bulb. Then he reaches overhead.
His shirt lifts.
Just enough for me to notice.
My pencil stills.

Lower abs. That sharp V line disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. My mouth goes dry before my brain can catch up, and I bite my lip without even realizing it, some traitorous, unconscious reflex as very forbidden thoughts start spinning lazy circles through my head.

When did Derrick get this ripped? Has he always looked like this?
God. Stop. I shake my head.
Derrick glances over his shoulder.
Right at me.

He grins. "Are you checking me out?"
Heat floods my face. I snap my eyes back to my sketch like it personally offended me.

"No. I would never." The words tumble out way too fast. Way too flustered.

He laughs, deep and easy, and screws the new bulb in with a flick of his wrist. The light steadies, bright and merciless.

"Too much time around those girls is messing with your head," he says, tossing the broken bulb into the air and catching it effortlessly.

Catherine rolls her eyes like she's refereeing children.

She points at me. "Your turn to help Derrick with dinner, Sam." Then she glares at both of us. "And for the love of peace, can we please eat something other than pasta for once?"

Derrick straightens again, still smiling.
I swallow, set my pencil down, and stand, acutely aware that the kitchen suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.

I am a walking hazard.
That becomes painfully obvious about three minutes into helping with dinner.
I bump into Derrick's elbow while he's chopping, knock the spice jar over as I reach for something else, and somehow manage to pour what feels like half the carton of milk into the sauce. The kitchen turns into a symphony of clatters and apologies.

"Sorry—sorry—oh my god, I swear I'm not usually this bad," I mutter, lunging to grab a spoon before it hits the floor.

Derrick just exhales slowly, jaw tightening the tiniest bit. He's patient. Painfully patient. Until he's not.

He steps up in front of me, hands firm on my waist before I even process what's happening. In one smooth motion, he lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me down on the counter.

"Stay there," he says. Not loud. Not angry. Just… final.

I blink up at him, cheeks warm, then pull a face and grab a carrot from the cutting board. I chomp down on it dramatically, like a rebellious child banished from the stove.

"Yes sir," I mumble around the crunch.
From my new perch, I watch him.
Really watch him.
The chaos disappears the moment he moves. His hands are steady and confident, knife flashing as vegetables fall into perfect, even pieces. He stirs the pot, flips the steaks, seasons without measuring. Like he just knows. Like this is exactly where he's meant to be.
It does something strange to my chest.
He tastes the sauce, blows gently on the spoon, then turns toward me.

"Try this."

Before I can overthink it, he brings the spoon to my mouth.
It feels… intimate. Too intimate. My lips part anyway, and I taste the sauce, rich, warm, perfect. I swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. His eyes don't leave my mouth, not even for a second.

"It's really good, Der," I say softly. "You should've been a chef." A pause. "You still can be, you know. If you ever decide you can live without us and go off to college."

He doesn't hesitate.

"And leave my favorite girls?" he says, like the answer is obvious. "No. I'm good right here."

My heart does a stupid little stumble.
His favorite girls.
I stare at the countertop, pretending to inspect a nonexistent smudge, and wonder who he means.
Me and Catherine?
Or… Casey?

The thought settles heavy and sharp in my chest, even as he turns back to the stove like he hasn't just said something that completely rewired my evening.
\--------------
Derrick p.o.v

"Would you tell me the story again?" Sam asks softly.

The kitchen is quiet now. Plates stacked, the light finally steady, the world narrowed to her voice and the way she's looking at me, like she already knows more than she should.
I don't question it. I never do.
It is her story as much as it is mine.
I lean back against the counter, eyes drifting somewhere far past the walls, past this house, past this life. There's a door inside me that never really closes. Tonight, it swings open easily.

"There was once a healer," I begin, careful, reverent. "A beautiful young girl with raven hair and bright eyes. Her name was Aleira. And a soldier who had no name at all. Only duty."

Sam curls her legs up on the counter, carrot forgotten, giving me all of her attention. She always does. It undoes me every time.

"They lived during the time of Crusaders and Holy wars," I continue. "He was sworn to fight. She was sworn to mend. And somehow, in all that blood and faith and ruin… they found each other."

I can still see her hands. Still feel them. Gentle, steady, fearless even when the world around us was breaking.

"For months he would sneak off to see her, hoping to win her affection. And he did. They were supposed to be married the next day," I say, my voice tightening despite myself.
"He was on patrol that night. Repeating what would be his wedding vows over and over in his head. Like saying them enough times would make the world behave until morning."
I don't look at Sam when I say the next part. I don't think I could.

"Aleira was alone at home. Two men came. Soldiers who wore the same crest as him."
The memory sharpens painfully. My jaw locks.

"They broke into her house," I say quietly. "They dragged her from her bed, assaulted her, took the one thing she'd kept sacred. Her innocence."

I swallow hard. "She had saved it for him. For their wedding night."
I had saved mine too. For her. For a future that never came.

"The violence," I continue, each word measured, controlled, "it cost her her life. But not right away."

I remember the smell of blood. The way her breath rattled. The way she tried to smile at me anyway.

"The soldier found her just before the end," I say. "She was barely holding on. He held her. Begged her to stay." My voice dips, fractures. I look up at Sam, tears already welling in her eyes
"And when she couldn't… he promised her. That he would find her again. In the next life. Or the one after that. Or any that followed."

I feel it again, the vow burning deeper than flesh, deeper than time.

"The next morning," I finish, "he rode into battle without armor. No shield. No helmet. Nothing. And he died."
Silence fills the kitchen. Thick. Sacred. Familiar.

Sam looks wrecked by it, like her heart is breaking over a story she thinks isn't real.
If only she knew.
If only she understood that I don't tell it with devotion because I imagined it, but because I remember every second.
And because, somehow, impossibly, she's here again.