THE NEXT DAY, I found myself wandering the quiet corridors of the house without any real purpose. The halls smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper, as though the air itself carried centuries of memory. My steps echoed off the marble tiles, soft but still too loud against the silence that pressed in around me. I didn't know why my feet carried me where they did, but eventually I pushed open the door to the infirmary.
The familiar smell of antiseptic and herbs wafted into my nose, sharp enough to sting. The faint creak of the hinges broke the stillness inside, and I stepped across the threshold, expecting to see the little boy—the one I'd glimpsed before sitting beside Dwight and Harriet. I half hoped he'd be there, offering me something strange and childlike to distract myself with.
But the chair he'd occupied was empty. Instead, my gaze snagged on two figures, and for a moment my heart stopped altogether.
It was as if time had folded in on itself, placing two fragments of my old life in the middle of this new one. Dwight was on his feet almost instantly, surprise flashing across his face, though it wasn't the harsh kind. If anything, there was warmth in his expression, recognition, maybe even relief.
"Hey, Alice." His voice rang through me. I hadn't realized how much I missed hearing it until that moment. His tone hadn't changed, but now it carried the weight of something heavier.
I stood there rooted, my breath shallow. "Hey."
For a moment, I wasn't sure what to say. He looked the same—same kind brown eyes, same steady shoulders, same easy presence—but there was something sharper about him too, a wariness that hadn't been there in the safety of our school halls. His hair was a little mussed, and his shirt was too plain compared to the polished uniform he always used to wear. But honestly, none of it lessened the undeniable magnetism he carried.
"How did you end up here, Dwight?" The question stumbled out.
He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck in that sheepish way I knew too well. It was the same nervous tic he'd had in school whenever the teacher caught him unprepared or when girls teased him about his grin. But now there was no charm in it, no playfulness—just tension.
"It's a long story, honestly, Alice," he admitted, his voice quieter than I expected, almost hesitant.
"Yeah?" I said.
"My dad—you know, the sheriff—he told me to run when these strange men started appearing one day." Dwight's voice cracked a little at the word dad, and for the first time, I realized how shaken he truly was. He wasn't the untouchable golden boy everyone admired back home. He was just a boy whose world had fallen apart, too. "He saw them first, ya know. I don't know who they were, really. They're just men in black suits. But there were dozens of them. They came out of nowhere—like they'd been waiting for us, waiting for me. I don't even know how they found our house."
He paused, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The energy around him shifted—like the playful light he carried so naturally had been dimmed.
"They tried to take me when I went out the backdoor. One managed to tug my arm. They dragged me out of the yard like I was some soer of criminal. After that, I heard my mom scream. My dad bolted out of the house as he fired his gun to these men. But none of it mattered. It felt as if they have superpowers."
I could picture it as he spoke. Then, Dwight shook his head, staring at the floor. "I don't remember how I got away. It was a blur. My dad shoved me toward the woods, shouted at me not to look back. He kept firing his gun… and I kept running." His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp breath. "The last thing I heard was him yelling my name."
There was a silence after that, thick and suffocating. His words hung in the air like smoke, burning my lungs. I honestly had never seen Dwight like this before. Back in school, he was always so smiling, so full of life—laughing, joking, leading. To see him broken like this, fighting to keep his voice from cracking, made something ache deep inside me.
He glanced at me then.
"I didn't know where to go after leaving," Dwight continued, his voice steadier now. "But the Headmaster showed up. He pulled me out before those men could ever get too close."
Ryan's face was unreadable, but the way Dwight acknowledged him carried quiet respect, almost reverence.
I followed the gesture briefly, meeting Ryan's calm eyes, but my attention snapped back to Dwight. It was impossible not to. The sheer fact of him being here—alive, safe, standing in the middle of this place—was enough to leave me unmoored.
And then—
"I was just as surprised to find Harriet here as well."
Her name cut like glass. Slowly, reluctantly, I turned.
Sitting at the far end of the room as though none of this mattered. A thick book rested in her lap, her posture perfect, her expression composed. She didn't even look up when her name was mentioned. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement, as though she were deaf to the world around her—or perhaps simply above it.
The sight of her was like pressing on a wound I'd tried to ignore. Her calmness was infuriating, her unreadable face a mirror reflecting all my inadequacies back at me. I could almost hear my old teachers' voices: Harriet scored the highest again. Harriet was chosen instead. Harriet did it better. Always her. Always perfect. Always untouchable. And now she was here. In this one place I thought might finally belong to me.
A sour bitterness welled up in me as I thought of it, sharp enough to make my jaw tighten. I tore my eyes away from her, my chest hot, my throat tight. Anything was better than looking at her, so I let my gaze drift elsewhere.
On the opposite side of the room, the boy I was looking for, older than seven or eight, sat hunched over a notepad. He didn't seem to notice the rest of us—didn't lift his head, didn't pause in his frantic scribbling. His shoulders curled inward, his whole body bent toward the page like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. Something about him tugged at the corner of my attention, but the storm raging inside me was too strong. I didn't stop to wonder what he was drawing, or why he sat there so quietly while chaos brewed around him. My mind was too full of Harriet's shadow, of Dwight's sudden presence, of everything I couldn't process.
My lips parted, but my voice came out raw and uneven. "I… I need some space."
Dwight's brow furrowed immediately, concern flashing across his face. He stepped forward as though to reach for me. "Hey—"
But before he could finish, Ryan intervened.
"Let her be," Ryan said softly, but his tone carried an authority that silenced even Dwight. His calm gaze met mine briefly, as though to reassure me that my exit was understood, maybe even expected.
Dwight hesitated, his hand lingering in the air for a second before falling back to his side. His expression twisted with something between confusion, worry, maybe even guilt—but he didn't follow.
I turned on my heel, my pulse hammering in my ears, and pushed through the door.
I wandered until my feet carried me to the willow tree.
***
The walk itself was quiet, the kind of quiet that made me feel both exposed and invisible. Every step through the grass sounded louder than it should have, crunching, whispering, announcing me to no one in particular. Yet the further I walked, the more I realized I wanted that stillness—needed it.
The willow tree waited for me like it always did, bending low as though it had secrets to keep. I sank down at its roots, curling my knees to my chest, burying my face, hoping the earth might drink up my unease. But even here, the heaviness pressed down, coiling around me until the silence felt unbearable.
A soft rustle stirred the air. I looked up just in time to see a blur of feathers sweep downward. Sebastian landed on the branch above me, talons digging gently into the bark. His eyes studied me with that unsettling sharpness owls always carried, but there was something softer behind it—concern, maybe even patience.
"You left so suddenly," he said, his voice even, carrying easily through the hush of the valley.
My throat tightened. For a moment I couldn't answer. But then the words slipped out.
I let out a shaky breath, my eyes fixed on the grass. "It's Harriet," I admitted quietly. "Seeing her here… it gets under my skin. Just when I thought I'd found somewhere I could finally belong, she shows up—and suddenly I feel like all my hatred came rushing back."
Sebastian shifted on the branch above me, feathers rustling as if he was sighing through his wings. "Alice," he said gently, "you don't need to measure yourself against her."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let his words stitch the cracks inside me. But before I could respond, a sudden crash of paws against the earth broke the fragile quiet. I barely had time to register the sight before another figure came into view, striding with infuriating casualness, his black cap tilted just so, his tank top clinging in the faint breeze.
Of course. I exhaled through my nose, disappointment curling in my chest. "Oh, it's you, Blackcap."
He opened his mouth, clearly ready with some smug retort. But then his eyes caught mine, lingering long enough to notice the rawness there—the telltale sting of tears I hadn't managed to hide. For once, he didn't joke. Instead, he crouched by the base of the willow and plucked a small flower—a primrose, delicate and pale, blooming shyly beneath the grass. He held it out without a word.
I hesitated at first. But after a heartbeat, I reached out and took it. My fingers brushed the petals, soft and trembling in my palm.
"Thanks," I murmured, reluctant but genuine.
He lowered himself onto the grass beside me, one knee bent, arms resting casually though his eyes still studied me. "You know," he said after a pause, "when we first met, I noticed your swollen eyes. And now, here you are again. Same place. Same tears. Only this time you're in my favorite spot."
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it, though the sound never left my throat. "Your favorite spot?"
He nodded, tilting his head as if daring me to challenge him. "Hunter and I come here all the time. It's quiet. Peaceful. But I didn't think I'd find someone else here—crying, no less."
I rolled the primrose between my fingers, gaze falling to the ground. For reasons I didn't fully understand, I felt safe enough to answer honestly. "It's been a lot, honestly. And sometimes it just feels easier to sit here than to pretend I'm fine."
He didn't interrupt. Didn't prod. Just listened, which was more than I expected from him.
But I was careful I didn't mention Harriet. Didn't mention being gifted. Didn't mention the men in black or the burning wreckage of my home. I only spoke around the edges of my story—loss, fear, the kind of grief that gnawed at you when you least expected it. Enough to open a crack, not enough to let everything spill out.
Riven sighed after a while, leaning back on his hands. "Funny. I used to think I had it bad. Thought I had the worst hand dealt to me. But listening to you…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening briefly before he continued. "I come from a struggling home, Whit. My father's been ill for years. He couldn't work much. Couldn't even stand most days. When the drafts started, I thought they'd take him. But instead, they sent me here."
His eyes darkened, the playfulness dimmed for once. "Not to fight. Not to train for war. Just so my father wouldn't have to be dragged away in his state."
The quiet that followed was different this time. Heavy, but not suffocating. I watched him, really watched him, and for the first time I glimpsed something beyond the smirk and sarcasm.
"I'm sorry about your father," he added softly, almost awkwardly, as though the words didn't come easily to him.
The fragile smile that tugged at my lips surprised me. "Thank you."
For a fleeting second, it felt like he was actually being… sweet. Genuine. Like maybe the black cap and sharp tongue were just armor.
But, of course, he couldn't let the moment last.
"You know," he said, tilting his head with mock seriousness, "your eyes are even puffier today than when I first saw you. Impressive, really. It takes skill to cry that much."
My jaw dropped, and I immediately rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. "Shut up."
His grin returned, infuriating and charming all at once. "But you smiled. Don't deny it."
I opened my mouth, ready with a scathing retort, but before I could let it fly, a voice called out in the distance.
"Hyeon!"
He glanced over his shoulder, the sound pulling him back to reality. A man stood in the far field, posture sharp, clearly some kind of officer. Riven muttered under his breath, then pushed himself to his feet in one smooth motion. He tossed me a wink before leaving—arrogant, effortless—as he whistled for Hunter, who bounded up immediately, tail wagging like none of this was serious.
"Try not to miss me too much, Whit," Riven teased, already jogging off.
I scoffed, glaring at his retreating back, but the heat rising in my cheeks betrayed me.
The moment he disappeared into the distance, the branches above rustled. Sebastian swooped down, feathers brushing the air, before shifting into his humanoid form and perching easily beside me.
"So," he said, voice laced with amusement, "who was that?"
I didn't even look at him. "Nobody."
He chuckled, the sound maddening. "Nobody who makes you blush?"
Blush?
I whipped my head toward him, scowling. "I was not blushing!"
"Of course not," he replied smoothly, though the smirk tugging at his lips told me otherwise.
I turned away, clutching the primrose tighter in my hand, trying to will the heat from my face.
"Sebastian," I warned, my tone firm but flustered. "Drop it."
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, eyes still dancing with mirth.
But I caught the way his gaze flicked briefly toward the flower in my hand, the way his expression softened, if only for a second. And though I would never admit it aloud, a small part of me wondered why—of all the flowers beneath the willow—Riven had chosen that one.
***
That evening, while the rest of the house surrendered to silence, I found myself restless. The halls of Willowmere were hushed, the kind of stillness that pressed against your ears until it rang louder than sound. I lay in bed for what felt like hours, watching moonlight crawl in thin, silver bars across the floor, willing my eyelids to grow heavy. They didn't. My mind was too loud, my chest too full.
Slipping from the bed, I padded barefoot to the window. The wooden boards creaked faintly beneath me, though not enough to wake anyone. The night air outside glistened with dew, the grounds bathed in soft blue light. I pushed the window open and drew in a breath—cool, sharp, alive. It felt better than the stale air of the room.
Without much thought, I swung one leg over the sill, then the other. The drop wasn't far, and I landed on the grass with a muted thud. My toes curled against the damp earth. I straightened and looked around. The mansion loomed behind me, its tall windows like unblinking eyes, its shadow stretching far across the lawn. Everyone inside slept soundly, and for a fleeting moment I envied them—the luxury of peace, of rest unbroken by grief.
I wandered, no destination in mind. The garden lay still, topiaries casting hunched shadows, flowerbeds muted in monochrome shades. Even the air seemed to hush itself, as though respecting the late hour. And then I looked up. The sky spread endlessly above me, a vast sea of ink pierced by thousands of stars. They shimmered so sharply they almost hurt to look at, like shards of glass flung across velvet. My breath caught. I hadn't truly noticed the stars in weeks—no, months. At home, the city lights had dulled them, and in the chaos of fleeing, burning, running, there'd been no time to lift my eyes.
Now, though, they seemed impossibly close, almost too close.
I wrapped my arms around myself and whispered into the night. "If you're there, Mom, Dad… if you're watching… give me a sign."
The words felt foolish as they left me, yet I couldn't stop them. They trembled out of me like a prayer, or maybe a plea. I thought of my mother's voice, always warm even when sharp; of my father's steady hands, guiding me as a child when I was too afraid to try on my own. Their faces rose in my mind with painful clarity—the curve of their smiles, the lines of worry around their eyes, the way their presence had once been the anchor of my world.
Now they were gone.
The grief rose suddenly, swelling like a tide. My throat burned with the weight of unshed tears. "Please," I whispered again, my voice breaking. "I don't know if I can do this alone."
A breeze stirred then, sudden and sharp, rushing across the lawn. It caught my hair, pulled at my sleeves, curled around me like unseen arms. For a heartbeat I froze, staring upward, my lips parted in surprise.
It felt… purposeful. Not random, not idle. It wrapped me in its cool embrace, pressing gently against my skin, and I could almost believe it was them. My mother. My father. Watching, answering.
The tears I had been holding back slipped free, but they were different this time. Softer. Not the violent sobs of despair but a quieter ache, like water spilling over a cracked cup. I let them fall as I tilted my head toward the sky, whispering without sound.
Thank you.
I don't know how long I stood there—minutes, hours. Time didn't matter. The stars pulsed above me, constant and eternal, and with every breath, something inside me shifted. Not healed, not yet, but eased. The jagged edges dulled, just enough to let air in.
For the first time in days, peace crept into me. It was fragile, trembling, but real. It settled in my chest like the faint glow of an ember, warming the hollow place where grief had dug too deep.
I lowered myself onto the grass, folding my legs beneath me, still gazing upward. The primrose Riven had given me earlier was tucked into my pocket, and I found my fingers brushing over it absentmindedly. It was slightly crumpled now, petals pressed by my fidgeting hands, but it still held its bloom. Somehow, it felt fitting to hold onto it in this moment—a small, living thing persisting in the dark.
"I'll try," I murmured, as though speaking to the stars. "I'll keep going. For you. Both of you."
The wind quieted, as if satisfied with my promise.
I stayed like that until the chill of the ground seeped into my bones, until my eyes grew heavy, until the stars began to blur into one another. The world around me hushed into lullaby silence—the slow chirp of crickets, the faint rustle of leaves, the distant ripple of water somewhere in the valley. My body curled instinctively against the earth, and I realized I hadn't felt this safe since before the fire.
For once, my heart didn't throb with panic when I closed my eyes.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the weeping arms of the willow tree, I felt sleep take me gently, like my parents' hands guiding me once more.