Pounding heart still echoed against Elias’s ribs, a frantic drum against the silence of his bedroom. Morning light, thin and watery, offered no comfort. He pushed away the damp sheets, the phantom scent of burnt rubber clinging to him. Washing his face with cold water did little to erase the image. That flicker, a dark shape near their car, before the impact. A tail light, retreating. Everything he believed, shattered in a nightmare’s fleeting moment. Lily’s accident. It wasn't an accident. The thought chilled him, a deeper cold than the water running down his jaw. Needs answers. The demand clawed at him, pulling him from the house, across the dew-kissed lawn. He spotted Mrs. Gable in her garden, a familiar silhouette amongst the roses. Her back was bent, a worn straw hat shading her face. She moved with a gentle slowness, her hands, gnarled with age, tending the earth. Approach felt heavy, each step sinking into the soft ground. He hadn't spoken to her much since Lily died, a shared grief making words difficult. “Mrs. Gable?” His voice felt rough, unused. Straightened, slowly, her hand going to her lower back. She turned, a faint smile gracing her lips, eyes crinkling at the corners. They were soft, kind eyes, the color of warm tea. “Elias. It’s been a while, dear.” Her voice, a whisper of dry leaves, carried surprising warmth. Felt a sudden flush, a boy caught doing something wrong. “Yes. I… I’m sorry to bother you.” Shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. “Never a bother. You just caught me admiring this new bloom. See its delicate color?” She pointed to a perfect pink rosebud. Nodded, barely registering the flower. “It’s beautiful.” Turned back to him fully, her gaze unwavering. “You have something on your mind, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, a restlessness.” Took a breath, the morning air sharp in his lungs. How to ask? How to articulate the monstrous shadow from his dream? “Lily,” he started, the name a painful echo. “You knew her well, didn’t you? Better than most.” Her smile softened further, a wistful quality entering her gaze. “Oh, Lily. A bright star, that one. Always full of light, even on the cloudiest days.” Needed more than sentiment. “Was she… was she ever troubled? In the weeks before… before it happened? Did she ever seem scared, or preoccupied?” Picked up a fallen rose petal, turning it over in her fingers. “Lily felt things deeply. She had a spirit that danced, and sometimes, that dance led her to quiet corners.” Quiet corners. What did that mean? He leaned forward, urgency tightening his chest. “Did she ever mention anything out of the ordinary? Anyone bothering her? A strange car, perhaps?” Looked up then, her eyes meeting his directly. A flicker of something passed through them, a knowing he couldn't grasp. “Young man, you’re still searching, aren’t you?” “I have to, Mrs. Gable. I have to know.” His voice cracked slightly. Placed a hand on his arm, her touch feather-light, yet firm. “Knowing isn't always finding. Sometimes, it’s letting go of what you think you need to find.” Pulled his arm back instinctively. “No, I can’t. There’s something… something I remembered. Something new.” Sighed, a sound like rustling paper. “Memories are tricky things, Elias. They change shape with time, with grief. They tell us what we’re ready to hear.” Frustration bubbled. “This isn’t about grief. This is about… about the truth.” Shook her head again, slowly. “Truth, dear boy, is rarely a simple thing. It has many layers, like the earth itself. And not all layers are meant for digging.” “What are you saying?” His voice was sharp, betraying his agitation. Smiled, a sad, gentle curve of her lips. “I’m saying that Lily found her peace. And you, Elias, must find yours.” That wasn’t an answer. It was a dismissal, wrapped in kindness. He felt a desperate urge to shake her, to demand clarity. “But if there was someone else,” he persisted, lowering his voice, “at the scene. A different car. Wouldn’t that change everything?” Her gaze held his, unwavering. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it would only change what you choose to believe.” “I saw it,” he insisted, his voice barely a whisper. “In my dream. A sedan. Tail lights.” Considered his words, her head tilted slightly. “Dreams are messages, yes. But sometimes, the message isn’t about what happened, but about what needs to heal.” He stood, defeated, the cryptic advice a stone in his gut. He had come seeking answers, concrete facts, and found only riddles. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Gable.” He turned to leave, the weight of his search heavier than before. Called after him, her voice soft but clear. He paused, turning back. Her eyes, full of gentle sorrow, held a knowing Elias couldn't decipher. “Sometimes, the truth isn't meant to be found, but revealed.”

Chapter 11: Seeking Old Wisdom