I woke up at 2:03 a.m. to my phone lighting up — eighteen missed calls from my daughter and a message that made my heart stop: “Dad, help! Come fast!!” I jumped out of bed, still in my pajamas, and drove through the empty streets with my mind racing through every fear a parent could imagine.
When I reached her door, she was standing there — safe, confused, and saying she hadn’t called me at all. No messages. No missed calls. I tried to laugh it off, but then another text appeared on my screen: “I remember what you did.”
That’s when the past I’d buried began clawing its way back. The next few nights, more texts came — at exactly 2 a.m. each time. Words that felt like knives: “You looked the other way.” “She cried for help.” “Do your hands still smell like gasoline?”
Then came the name I hadn’t heard in decades: Sarika.
She was the girl from my hometown — the one my best friend bullied, the one I didn’t protect enough, the one who vanished after he tried to set her porch on fire. I stopped him that night, but I never told anyone the full truth.
A few weeks later, a small package arrived. Inside was a USB drive labeled BUSH CAM. The footage showed everything — my teenage self, the fire, and Sarika coming back later to pick up the lighter. She looked straight at the camera and mouthed, “Thank you… why… go.”
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