Chapter One

“Get dressed, Lia. We’re leaving.”

The voice cut through the stillness like a blade, soft but sharp, threaded with finality.

I blinked up at Aunt May, her silhouette framed by the morning light pouring through my bedroom window. Her arms were crossed tightly, her mouth pressed into that familiar grim line—the one that meant she’d already decided. No discussion. No delay.

“But… why?” I rasped, my throat dry from sleep, or maybe from the ache blooming in my chest. “We just got here. I—” My voice caught. I just found him.

Aunt May turned away, stepping out of the room. “One hour. Pack only what you need.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

The warmth of last night still lingered on my skin. Tom’s hoodie was bunched beside me on the bed, the scent of bonfire smoke and mint clinging to the fabric. He’d kissed me under the stars, whispered promises of a summer we’d make unforgettable. His fingers had brushed mine like they were made to fit, like he’d waited forever to hold me.

And now I had to leave. Again.

I sat up slowly, pressing my palms into the mattress to ground myself. The truth was, this wasn’t new. We’d moved more times than I could count—tracing a map of temporary stops and quiet goodbyes. But something about this place had felt different. The air had settled in my lungs just right. The kids at school had stopped looking at me like I didn’t belong. And Tom… Tom had seen me.

Not the awkward, quiet girl with too many secrets and too few answers. He’d seen me.

Still, defying Aunt May wasn’t an option. She wasn’t cruel, but she was firm. She raised me on instinct and instinct alone—her rules were non-negotiable, especially when it came to our safety. And as much as I hated it, I trusted her.

Even when it hurt.

I stared at the closet like it held a choice I didn’t get to make.

Six months. That’s how long we’d been here. Half a year. Long enough to fill drawers with clothes, to hang jackets on pegs, to scatter my life across shelves like I’d actually get to stay. But I should’ve known better. I did know better.

I grabbed my duffel bag from under the bed and unzipped it, the sound harsh in the quiet. My fingers hovered over my clothes—rows of shirts and sweaters, too many for one bag. I couldn’t take it all. There just wasn’t room.

So I picked what mattered.

Two pairs of jeans, one faded and soft from wear, the other still stiff but reliable. A threadbare hoodie I stole from Aunt May two years ago and never gave back. A dress I wore to the winter formal because Tom had smiled like I was made of light. A handful of T-shirts—one from the school play, one with paint stains from art class, one that still smelled like campfire.

Ten pieces. Maybe eleven, if I squeezed in the flannel I wore the night Tom first kissed my cheek.

I left the rest.

Underwear, socks, my toothbrush. The basics. I shoved them into the side pocket and zipped it up tight, pressing my hand against the bulging seams like that could stop the ache blooming in my chest. I caught sight of myself in the mirror across the room—my hair still tangled from sleep, my eyes rimmed in pink.

“I don’t want to go,” I whispered, as if saying it might make a difference.

But no one answered.

I moved to the dresser and paused. There was a photo of me and Tom at the pier, our smiles caught in the blur of a Polaroid. I hesitated, then tucked it between the pages of my sketchbook. I couldn’t carry everything, but I could carry that.

Footsteps creaked down the hallway.

Time was up.

I zipped the bag shut and stood, stealing one last look around the room that had felt like mine. I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked up the duffel and slung it over my shoulder.

I was Lia Greyson. Fifteen years and eleven months old. And leaving—leaving was just what I did.

Aunt May’s voice came again, firmer this time. “Lia, we’ve got to leave. Now.”

I flinched, pulling the strap of my duffel higher on my shoulder. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t get enough air.

“I’m coming,” I called back, even though my feet didn’t want to move.

I gave the room one last glance. The posters on the wall, the window with the view of the tree Tom and I used to sit under, the pillow that still held his scent. All of it had to stay.

I walked out slowly, each step heavy. Aunt May stood by the front door, her coat already on, keys in her hand. Her eyes softened just a little when she looked at me, but her mouth stayed in that tight line.

“Ready?” she asked.

No. I wasn’t.

But I nodded anyway. “Yeah.”

Aunt May didn’t wait for more words. She turned and headed down the porch steps toward the car, her boots crunching against the gravel. I followed slowly, each step feeling like it dragged me further from everything I wanted to hold onto.

The car was already rumbling low, like it knew we wouldn’t be here much longer. I opened the trunk and tossed my duffel inside, slamming it shut with more force than I meant to. The wind picked up, cold and sharp, brushing against my skin like a warning.

As I reached for the passenger door, something tugged at my chest—an ache, a pull.

Mom’s jacket.

I gasped, spun around, and bolted back toward the house.

Up the stairs. Through the door. Down the hall.

I flung open the closet and grabbed it—my mother’s jacket. Worn leather, soft from age, with the faintest scent of lavender clinging to the collar. I slipped it on and it hugged me like a memory, like a promise. The sleeves were a little too long, but I didn’t care.

I ran back out, heart racing, the hem of the jacket flapping against my legs.

Aunt May glanced at me as I jumped into the car. Her eyes dropped to the jacket but she didn’t say anything. She just shifted into drive.

We rolled forward, pulling out of the driveway for the last time.

I leaned against the window, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. Trees blurred past. Houses we wouldn’t see again disappeared in the rearview mirror.

And then… I saw it.

A shape.

Half-hidden in the thick trees at the edge of the woods.

Eyes.

Glowing. Watching.

Frozen, I leaned closer to the window, my breath catching.

It wasn’t a reflection. It wasn’t the light.

It was real.

“What’s that…” I whispered to myself.

But whatever it was didn’t move. It just stared.

And for a moment—I could’ve sworn—it knew me.