Echoes of 24 Hours

The water lapped at my knees, cold and black, a tide rising from nowhere. Raisa sat before me, chained to the rotting chair, her head bowed as if in sleep—or surrender. The bulb above flickered, a frail moth of light beating against the dark, and her shadow stretched across the pool, trembling with mine. I reached for her again, my hand hovering over her arm, the chill of her skin seeping into me before I even touched her. "Raisa," I whispered, her name a stone in my throat.

She didn't stir. Her hair hung like wet ink, veiling her face, and the chain around her wrists clinked faintly as the water nudged it. I brushed her arm—ice, unyielding—and a shiver climbed my spine. Too cold. Too still. My fingers slid to her wrist, pressing for a pulse, but the chain bit into her flesh, and my own trembling made it impossible to tell. Was there a flutter, faint as a moth's wing, or was it just the water's ripple against her skin?

"Raisa, wake up," I said, louder now, my voice cracking the silence. I shook her gently, her head lolling to one side, and the hair parted—just enough. Her face—pale, hollow, the scar above her eyebrow a faint crescent—stared back, eyes closed, lips parted as if caught mid-breath. My chest caved. She was here, real, not a ghost in my mind, but this stillness—was it death? I couldn't bear it.

I cupped her face, my hands trembling, her skin slick with damp and time. "Please," I begged, my thumbs brushing her cheeks, searching for warmth, for life. A sound—soft, broken—slipped from her lips, a gasp or a groan, too faint to name. My heart leapt, a frantic bird against its cage. "Raisa!" I shook her harder, the chair creaking, water splashing around us. Her head tipped back, and her eyes flickered—open, just a slit—green flecked with hazel, clouded, unfocused.

"Lukas?" Her voice was a thread, frayed and distant, barely audible over the dripping. I froze, tears stinging my eyes. She knew me. She was alive—barely, but alive. "I'm here," I said, my words tumbling out, raw and desperate. "I found you. I won't leave you again." Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, then slackened. Her eyes drifted shut, and the sound faded, leaving only the water's steady hymn.

Panic clawed at me. "No—no, stay with me!" I fumbled with the chain, the key useless against its rusted links. My hands slipped, blood from my knuckles mixing with the pool, and I pounded the chair, the wood splintering under my fists. She couldn't fade—not now, not after I'd found her. I pressed my ear to her chest, straining for a heartbeat, a breath. Nothing—just the drip-drip-drip, mocking me, and the bulb's flicker, casting her face in fleeting light.

Another memory bloomed, unbidden, sharp as a blade. Rain lashed the riverbank, her hands gripping my arms, her voice breaking: "Don't do this, Lukas!" I'd pushed her—gently, I'd thought—into a shed, a cellar, something with a wooden door. The key had turned, her cries muffled as I backed away, the storm swallowing her pleas. "I'll come back," I'd said, or meant to, but I hadn't. I'd run, the necklace in my pocket, her trust bleeding out behind me.

I recoiled, the memory a weight crushing my lungs. "I'm sorry," I choked, clutching her hands, the chain biting into my palms. Her fingers twitched—barely, a reflex—or was it more? I leaned closer, my forehead to hers, her breath—or the air's damp whisper—brushing my lips. "I didn't mean to leave you," I said, tears falling into the water, rippling her reflection. "I didn't know."

The speaker crackled, its voice seeping down from above, soft as falling leaves: "She waited for you." My head snapped up, rage flaring. "She's here!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the weeping walls. "I found her—help me!" Silence answered, then a hum, low and mournful. The bulb dimmed, the light thinning, and her face slipped into shadow again.

I turned back to her, lifting her wrist, pressing harder for a pulse. There—a faint thud, slow, erratic, or maybe my own hope pulsing through her skin. "Raisa, hold on," I said, my voice a lifeline thrown into the dark. I yanked at the chain again, the links groaning but holding fast. The water rose, past her knees now, lapping at her waist, and the chair shifted, tilting with a groan. I caught her as she slumped, her weight light, fragile, like a bird fallen from its nest.

Her head rested against my chest, her hair tangling in my fingers, and I held her, rocking slightly, the water cold around us. "I'll get you out," I promised, my voice breaking. "I'll fix this." But how? The key didn't fit, the chain wouldn't break, and the room—the cage—pressed in, its walls weeping louder, the dripping a roar now, drowning my thoughts.

A sound—sharp, metallic—cut through the noise. I looked up, the bulb swaying, and saw it: a crack in the ceiling, thin but growing, water seeping through, faster now, raining down in threads. My heart sank. The room was flooding—slowly, relentlessly—and her time, my time, was slipping away. I held her tighter, her breath—or its absence—a question I couldn't answer.

The speaker buzzed one last time: "Did you save her, Lukas?" The words hung, unanswered, as the light flickered out, plunging us into dark.