We Become Stories

The night air was thick with humidity, carrying the distant scent of rain and gasoline. Jessica sat on the small balcony of the safehouse, a cigarette burning between her fingers, though she had barely taken a drag. The city below pulsed with life, the neon glow of Mexico City bleeding into the sky like a permanent twilight.

She had always liked cities like this, loud, indifferent, filled with people who didn’t give a damn who you were or what you carried inside you. But tonight, she felt the weight of it.

She lifted her phone and dialed. It rang three times before Sam picked up.

His voice was steady, even. “You’re not dead.”

Jessica let out a short breath. “Not for lack of trying.”

A pause. Then, softer: “Talk to me, Jess.”

She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the night. “What do you think happens when we die?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. She knew he was watching her carefully, even across the distance.

Finally, his voice came through, measured and quiet, “I think we become stories.”

Jessica’s lips quirked slightly. “Hemingway would’ve liked that.”

Sam exhaled. “What did you find?”

Jessica closed her eyes. She wanted to tell him everything. But where did she even begin?

She tapped the cigarette against the ashtray, watching the embers flicker and die.

“I don’t think I was ever supposed to be a person, Sam.”

His silence was heavier this time.

Jessica inhaled. “I think I was meant to be a book.”

She heard him shift on the other end of the line, his voice careful now. “Explain that to me.”

Jessica rubbed her temple. “What if we don’t die? Not in the way people think.” She swallowed. “What if we just… pass things forward? Memories, knowledge, entire pieces of ourselves. What if someone figured out how to control that?”

Sam was quiet for a long moment.

Then, evenly, “Who are you remembering?”

Jessica closed her eyes. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted.

She heard him sigh, and heard the tension in his breath. But when he spoke, his voice was steady and calm, “Do you want to remember?”

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no. The memories weren’t waiting for permission. They were already inside her, cracking open the seals.

“That’s the problem,” she murmured. “I think I already do.”

* * *

Jessica found Olivia still at the desk, her eyes bloodshot from scanning files, drinking coffee that had long gone cold. The desk was chaotic. Three monitors flickered with outdated dossiers. A Vatican ledger lay open beneath a takeout box.

She didn’t look up as Jessica entered the room.

“If you tell me you want to storm the Vatican next, I might actually quit.”

Jessica smirked. “No plans for that.”

Olivia finally glanced up. “What’s the move?”

Jessica exhaled. “We need Leanna.”

Olivia arched a brow. “You don’t usually call for backup.”

Jessica rolled her shoulders. “This isn’t a job. It’s not just about getting answers. I need…” She hesitated, then let out a quiet breath. “I need the people who know me.”

Something flickered in Olivia’s expression. She didn’t say anything, just nodded, reaching for her phone. Jessica watched the city lights through the window, her chest tightening. She wasn’t chasing this alone, and that, more than the truth, was what kept her steady.