For the first time in weeks, Alya's life felt normal.
She woke up early, prepared for work, and followed her routines with a mechanical calm. The city moved as it always did—crowded trains, honking cars, tired faces rushing toward destinations that mattered more than fear. She returned to her apartment each night, cooked simple meals, and slept without dreams.
No whispers. No knocking. No shadows at the corner of her vision.
Days passed without incident. Then weeks.
Two weeks later, Alya allowed herself to believe it was over.
Whatever had followed her from the village—whatever had worn familiar voices, sung old songs, and lingered on highways—had finally let her go. She no longer flinched at sudden sounds. The radio no longer frightened her. Even the night felt ordinary again.
She told herself that exhaustion and grief had played tricks on her mind.
Nothing more.
That night, she drove home from work under a sky heavy with clouds. Traffic was light, the city streets glowing with yellow lamps. Her mind drifted lazily, thinking of nothing in particular, when her headlights suddenly caught something ahead.
She slowed.
In the middle of the road—far too wide to be ignored—was chaos.
A car lay overturned, its metal twisted like crushed paper. Debris littered the asphalt. Glass glittered under her headlights like broken stars. And bodies—human bodies—were scattered everywhere.
Some lay motionless. Some were torn apart. Some were incomplete.
Alya slammed on the brakes, her heart crashing violently against her ribs.
"Oh God…" she whispered.
The smell hit her next—metallic, thick, unmistakable. Blood. Fresh and overwhelming.
Her hands shook as she reached for the door handle. She didn't think. She acted. She stepped out of the car, her legs weak, breath shallow.
The road was silent.
No screams. No sirens. No headlights approaching.
"Hello?" her voice trembled. "Is anyone alive?"
No answer.
She took a few steps forward, her shoes crunching against glass. Her eyes darted from one body to another, horror blooming in her chest. One arm lay separated from its owner. A head rested unnaturally against the curb, eyes open, mouth frozen mid-scream.
Alya swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit.
Her hands fumbled for her phone. She dialed 999, her fingers slick with sweat. The screen lit up—but before she could press call, a voice spoke behind her.
"Miss?"
Alya screamed and spun around.
A man stood a few meters away, dressed casually, his expression concerned but calm. He raised his hands slightly, as if to show he meant no harm.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "Your car okay?"
Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear him. She glanced past him, toward the road—
And froze.
The accident was gone.
The overturned car had vanished. The debris was gone. The bodies—every single one—were gone.
The road was clean. Empty. Perfectly normal.
No blood. No glass. No sign that anything had ever happened.
Alya's breath caught painfully in her throat.
"I—" Her voice cracked. She forced herself to look back at the man. "I'm fine. My car's fine."
He frowned slightly. "You stopped suddenly. I thought maybe you had a problem."
She shook her head too quickly. "No. No problem."
Her pulse raced. She felt dizzy, disoriented, like the world had shifted without her noticing.
She didn't dare look at the road again.
"I just… felt tired," she continued, forcing the words out. "I wanted to stop and rest for a moment."
The man nodded slowly, studying her face. "Long day?"
"Yes," Alya said immediately. "I was on the phone. Just telling my friend I'd take a nap."
She lifted her phone slightly, pretending it had been in use. The man didn't question it. He simply gave a small smile.
"Alright. Just be careful. This road gets quiet at night."
"I will," she said softly.
He walked back to his car and drove away, his taillights disappearing into the distance.
Only then did Alya allow herself to breathe.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty road. Her legs felt hollow. Weak. She climbed back into her car and locked the doors, her hands trembling against the steering wheel.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She just drove.
The rest of the journey passed in silence. The city welcomed her back with its noise and lights, oblivious to what had almost been—or what she had seen.
When she reached her apartment, she went straight inside, shut the door, and leaned against it, closing her eyes.
Nothing followed her in. Nothing knocked. Nothing whispered.
But deep inside, Alya knew something had changed.
Because accidents didn't disappear.
And neither did the dead.