*"In Ashmoor, silence wasn't absence. It was anticipation."*
The morning after her return, Eira Vale stepped into the town she had long tried to forget. The mist hadn't lifted—it never did fully in Ashmoor. It hovered like a veil, clinging to rooftops and weaving between trees as though it too remembered what the town was trying to bury.
She walked through the narrow streets, her boots soft against the gravel, eyes scanning familiar shapes. Everything looked the same, and yet it all felt… wrong. As if someone had taken a picture of her memories and slightly smudged the edges.
The people hadn't changed much either—faces she half-recognized, older, wearier. Some glanced at her as she passed. Others turned away, crossing the street in silence.
Ashmoor had not welcomed her. It had merely opened the door and let her walk in.
Her first stop was the *Ashmoor Memorial Library*—not for books, but for the town's record keeper: *Evelyn Thorne*. Once her school's strictest English teacher, now the library's sole guardian.
Eira found Evelyn at her desk, sorting old catalog cards with the precision of a surgeon. The woman looked up slowly, her gray eyes narrowing as recognition dawned.
"You shouldn't be here, Miss Vale."
No pleasantries. No welcome.
Eira met her gaze. "Then why am I the only one who got the letter?"
Evelyn blinked. Her fingers stopped moving. For a brief second, something flickered in her expression—fear or guilt, maybe both.
"The dead don't send letters," Evelyn said quietly, her voice rasping like paper.
Eira placed the envelope on the desk.
Evelyn didn't touch it. She stared at it like it might burn her.
"There were five of us," Eira said. "Now only three remain. And if I'm right, we're running out of time."
Evelyn stood abruptly. "Don't bring that here."
"But you remember—"
"I remember too well," she snapped. "Leave Ashmoor before it remembers you."
Eira left without another word. Outside, the cold air bit into her skin, but her hands burned from the tension.
---
Her next stop was the old *church cemetery*, where *Calla Reign* had been buried.
Eira had missed the funeral, intentionally.
But now she stood before Calla's grave, reading the name etched in granite:
*Calla M. Reign*
*1994–2024*
"She kept the silence."
Below it, someone had carved a faint, crooked symbol into the stone—almost invisible unless one was looking for it.
Eira *was* looking.
The same symbol from the childhood pact.
She turned sharply as footsteps approached.
A voice called out behind her, deep and wary: "Didn't think you'd actually come."
*Tobias Greaves.*
Once the loudest, most impulsive of their group, now a detective for the Ashmoor police. Time had carved harder lines into his face, and his uniform looked more like armor than duty.
"You still carry a badge?" Eira asked.
"Still pretending to be sane?" he shot back.
She smiled bitterly. "No need to pretend."
They stood in silence for a moment, staring down at Calla's grave.
"I saw her body," Tobias said finally. "She drowned. In her own bathtub. Doors locked from the inside. But she—" He stopped.
"She what?" Eira pressed.
"She sewed her own mouth shut."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"She knew," Tobias muttered. "She remembered. Just like I do."
"Do you think Soren's alive?"
Tobias turned slowly. "He's not alive. But I think he's awake."
---
Later that night, Eira returned to the Vale house.
The attic lights flickered as she climbed the stairs. Her fingers brushed the edge of the journal she'd unearthed yesterday.
She opened it again.
This time, a page she didn't remember writing was visible. New ink. Fresh words.
*"You're not safe. Not until the circle is whole again."*
As the house groaned beneath the weight of silence, Eira's breath caught in her throat.
She wasn't alone.
Something was awake with her.
Watching.
Waiting.
---