Chapter 5: “The Calm After the Storm”

  The sound of the crash still lingers in the air, a ghostly echo of chaos. I stand exactly forty-nine meters away, watching as smoke and steam rise into the night sky, twisting and curling like dying breaths. The street is quiet at first, an eerie kind of stillness settling over the wreckage. But then, a few lights flicker on. The neighborhood stirs.

  A moment later, the first door swings wide, and someone rushes out—a middle-aged man in slippers, his face groggy with sleep. He stops, eyes locked onto the destroyed truck, his breath catching in his throat. Then another door opens. Then another. Within minutes, a small crowd forms, their whispers mixing with the distant hum of the city.

  I take a slow breath, adjusting my posture. I need to look like one of them—curious, concerned, caught off guard. I furrow my brows slightly and let my gaze dart between the wreck and the gathering people, as if trying to process what just happened.

  More people emerge, some in pajamas, others throwing on jackets over their nightclothes. A few hold their phones, fingers shaking as they dial emergency services.

  "A crash? This late?"

  "Is anyone hurt?"

  "Someone call an ambulance!"

  I changed my thoughts. There is no harm in checking out .

  Their voices are tinged with worry, panic even. I step forward, merging into the crowd. My presence is unnoticed—just another bystander caught in the wake of disaster.

  But not everyone is content to just watch. A few of the bolder ones move closer to the wreckage, hesitant but determined. A woman in a nightgown clutches her phone to her chest, eyes darting between the wreck and the others around her.

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  “We need to check if they’re alive,” she says, voice shaking.

  A younger man nods, stepping forward. “Right. The fire department will take too long. We have to do something now.”

  I move with them, carefully keeping my pace natural, my expression unreadable. I need to look like I belong here, like I actually care.

  One of the men reaches for the door, pulling at the handle. It doesn’t budge. The impact must have jammed it. He curses under his breath and tries again.

  "Help me out here!"

  Another man joins in, and together, they pull at the door, their muscles straining. The metal groans in protest before finally giving way with a sickening crunch. The door swings open, revealing the cabin’s interior.

  Then, silence.

  The woman gasps, a hand flying to her mouth. Someone mutters a curse.

  Inside, the driver and the passenger are slumped over, their bodies twisted unnaturally. Blood streaks the dashboard. Glass shards glisten under the streetlights. Their eyes—lifeless, empty.

  Dead.

  Too late.

  The smell of fuel mixes with the metallic scent of blood, thick and cloying in the air. Someone gags. Another turns away, unable to look.

  I just stare.

  Not at the blood, not at the wreck, but at the expressions on their faces—the shock, the horror, the helplessness. They feel something. They grieve. They tremble.

  I don’t.

  My lips twitch, barely a movement, but I catch myself before the smirk can form completely. Not here. Not now.

  A man shakes his head, stepping back. “They’re gone.”

  The woman clutches her phone tighter, voice barely a whisper. “The ambulance is on its way.”

  But it doesn’t matter..The dead don't need ambulances.

  I step back with them, feigning the same helplessness they feel. But inside, I’m calm. Cold. Detached.

  I turned, blending back into the crowd as the sirens began to wail in the distance. I’ve seen enough. I walk through the neighborhood.

  I see people waking up. Going towards the accident.

  By the time I make it home, the clock reads 5:00 AM.

  The house is silent, but not empty. As I step inside, I find my aunt sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in her hands. She doesn’t look up right away, but I know she heard me come in.

  Finally, she glances up, her tired eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Where’d you go?”

  I meet her gaze, my expression unreadable.

  “Just headed out for fresh air.”

  "Ok just don't roam for long hours "

  A pause. She studies me for a moment, but whatever she’s looking for, she doesn’t find it. With a quiet sigh, she takes a sip of her tea.

  I don’t wait for her to say anything else. I head upstairs, stepping into my room. Everything is in order—just the way I left it.

  I prepare for the day ahead.

  By 6:30 AM, I eat breakfast.

  By 7:25 AM, I leave home.

  By 8:00 AM, I step through the school gates, slipping back into the routine of normal life.

  But normal doesn’t exist for me. It never has.

  The night’s events don’t linger in my mind the way they would for others. The images don’t haunt me. The deaths don’t weigh on me.

  Because they don’t matter.

  Nothing does.

  End of Chapter 5.

  ___.