Return

Six Months Earlier…

The air tasted like static and ash.

I was back. I knew it. Same clearing. Same shape of trees—what was left of them. But the water was gone. The swamp had dried and cracked and opened its ribs to the heat.

The “Reflection Loop” sign lay in two blackened pieces. One letter had melted into the wood. The “R.”

My boot crushed something brittle. It used to be moss. I didn’t have my camera—but one sat waiting where I remembered standing the first time. Same strap. Same model. Not mine.

I lifted it. The LCD flickered, already powered on. Five photos. All familiar. One was the marsh—still wet, still foggy—but I was in it. Small. Centered. Focused.

Another was a silhouette in the smoke. Right now. Right here. It moved as I moved. But the screen didn’t update.

Behind me, something shifted in the heatwave haze. The same scream—distorted this time. Like it was played through a broken speaker underwater.

I turned toward the sound and saw him—no, it—standing inside a curtain of smoke. Not visible. Not real. But present. Its shoulders were too still. Its hands stayed open. Waiting.

The screen blinked and a new image loaded. A photo of the ground in front of me—before I looked. A reflection in a puddle that wasn’t there anymore. My face. My back.

I backed up. The smoke moved forward.

Click.

The camera took a shot on its own.

I dropped it.

Then everything leaned sideways. The heat warped the trees. The black water came back—but only in the air. Hanging like a threat. Not touching the ground. The scream looped again. Closer.

Then I was on the road again. The sign: “Return Route.”

I blinked.

Gone.