Chapter 1
The veterinarian had apologized three times. It wasn't her fault.
Elias couldn't remember a single word she'd said.
He remembered signing the paperwork because the pen had slipped from his fingers halfway through his signature.
He remembered carrying the cardboard box out to the truck with both hands, as if holding it any differently might somehow make it lighter.
He remembered Clara asking if she should drive home instead.
He had shaken his head. That was about it.
Everything after that had become strangely mechanical.
Drive. Unlock the front door. Carry the box into the backyard. Find the shovel leaning against the fence. Dig. Keep digging.
He drove the blade into the ground again. The impact ran through his arms and settled somewhere between his shoulders. The soil in the backyard was heavier than he expected, packed tight from years of neglect, and every shovelful seemed to fight him before finally giving way.
October had arrived early this year. Dry maple leaves drifted across the lawn whenever the wind picked up, collecting around his boots before scattering again.
Somewhere beyond the fence, a lawnmower droned lazily, and for a few seconds the ordinary sound annoyed him.
It felt wrong that the rest of the neighborhood had simply... continued.
People were mowing their lawns. Walking their dogs. Laughing. Ordering takeout.
Meanwhile, twelve years of his life sat in a cardboard box less than six feet away.
“You've been digging the same spot for ten minutes.” Clara's voice was soft enough that he almost missed it.
He leaned against the shovel and glanced back.
She stood on the deck wrapped in the oversized charcoal hoodie she'd stolen from him sometime during their first winter together.
Her hands were buried inside the front pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cool afternoon air. She hadn't cried since leaving the clinic.
That worried him more than if she had.
“I hit roots,” he said.
“You've said that three times.”
“Because there are a lot of roots.”
She looked toward the maple tree towering above them. “Maybe don't bury him under the only tree with roots.”
He let out a quiet breath that almost became a laugh.
“I'll remember that next time.” The words slipped out before he thought about them.
Both of them froze.
Clara looked down at the wooden deck beneath her feet. “I'm sorry.”
“No,” Elias murmured after a moment. “That one's on me.”
Silence settled between them again. Not the awkward kind.
Just the sort that arrived when neither person had anything useful left to say.
He pushed the shovel back into the earth.
Rusty would have hated this silence.
The old retriever had never managed to sit still for longer than thirty seconds.
Even during his final weeks, when arthritis made every step look painful, he'd still drag himself toward the front door the moment he heard Elias pick up his keys.
As if every car ride might be another trip to the lake.
Elias swallowed hard.
“You know…” Clara spoke without looking at him. “I still keep expecting to hear him scratching at the back door.”
“So do I.”
“I almost filled his food bowl this morning.”
He nodded. “I almost called his name.”
Neither admitted which one hurt more.
The hole was finally deep enough.
Elias climbed out, brushing dirt from his knees before kneeling beside the small cardboard box.
The veterinary clinic had tucked a folded blue blanket around Rusty before sealing it closed.
It was the same blanket he'd slept on as a puppy.
The edges were frayed now. One corner still carried a faded chew mark.
Elias rested his hand on top of the box. “I should've noticed sooner.”
Clara was beside him before he realized she'd crossed the yard. “You couldn't have.”
Elias was quick to deny.
“He stopped eating.”
“He was fourteen.”
“He stopped running.”
“I thought he just had a bad week.”
She reached over and quietly threaded her fingers through his. “You loved him.”
“I know.”
“You took him to every appointment.”
He nodded.
“You slept on the living room floor with him last week.”
His jaw tightened.
“So stop trying to convince yourself you failed him.”
He looked away. Guilt had an irritating habit of ignoring logic.
Together, they lowered the box into the grave.
Neither of them said a prayer. Neither of them was particularly religious.
Instead, Elias whispered, “Thanks for sticking around.”
The wind answered by stirring the branches overhead.
A single amber leaf drifted lazily downward before landing on top of the box.
For some reason… That almost broke him.
He shoveled the first layer of dirt into the grave.
Then another. Then another. The sound changed.
Clang.
Elias frowned. He pushed the shovel into the ground again.
Clang.
Metal. He straightened. “There shouldn't be anything down there.”
“What is it?” Clara asked.
“I don't know.”
He crouched beside the edge of the hole and pushed loose soil aside with his gloved hand.
Something black slowly emerged beneath the dirt.
It was rectangular. Plastic.
For a second he thought he'd found an old toolbox buried by the previous owners.
Then his fingers traced two circular windows beneath the mud. “...You're kidding.”
“What?” He pulled harder.
The object came free with a wet sucking sound, roots snapping one after another as though they had wrapped themselves around it.
It was a VHS cassette.
Dirt fell away from the casing.
One corner still carried damp soil.
Yet the handwritten warning looked as though someone had written it that morning.
Mud had hardened into it. Thin roots clung stubbornly to the edges, and one side carried a long crack that should have split the casing in half.
Yet somehow… It hadn't.
Clara stared at it. “Who buries a videotape?”
“No idea.”
He rubbed his thumb across the front. The dried mud flaked away in thin strips.
A white label appeared beneath it. Handwriting. Not printed. Written.
The marker was still surprisingly dark.
DO NOT WATCH
Neither of them spoke.
Elias read it again. Then a third time.
The warning wasn't written in shaky handwriting or dramatic red ink. It looked... ordinary.
As though someone had labeled an old family video.
Only the words weren't Christmas 1998 or Sophie's Birthday.
Just— DO NOT WATCH.
Clara took a small step back. “No.”
He looked up. “No?”
“We're not bringing that inside.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You haven't even let me answer.”
“I don't need to.”
“It could just be somebody messing around.”
She folded her arms. “So they buried their joke in the backyard?”
“Maybe the previous owners' kids.”
“Three feet underground?”
“...Fair.”
She pointed toward the garbage bins beside the garage. “Throw it away.”
He turned the cassette over in his hands.
There was no company label. No date. No title.
Only dried mud packed into the grooves and that same warning staring back at him.
He should have thrown it away. He knew that.
In fact, if he'd found almost anything else buried back there—a cracked plate, an old boot, a rusted coffee tin, it would've gone straight into the trash without a second thought.
But the warning did something strange. It didn't frighten him. It irritated him.
Whoever had written those words had expected them to be obeyed.
And that tiny, stubborn part of his brain, the one that had gotten him into trouble since childhood immediately wanted to know why.
He sighed. “I'm just curious.”
“I know.”
“That's not always a bad thing.”
“No,” Clara said quietly.
“It really isn't.”
She looked at the cassette for a long moment before answering. “...Sometimes it is.
The wind picked up again, carrying dead leaves across the yard.
One scraped against the cracked plastic.
Neither of them noticed that the tape reels, buried underground for years… Had stopped moving with gravity.
And now rested perfectly still.
As though someone, somewhere inside the cassette… Had become aware they were no longer alone.
Elias wasn't planning on following Clara's word. He wipes the mud away… noticing another line scratched into the plastic.
Not written. Scratched. Almost impossible to read.
...please don't make my mistake…