Town used to begin with bells.
Morning bells. Market bells. Church bells on half-moon Sundays. That was before the moon disappeared. Now there were no bells. Just shutters creaking open. Just footsteps on wet stone. Just the kind of quiet people tried not to notice.
Mara followed her aunt down the hill. Fog clung low, rising from the ground instead of falling from the sky. The road to town cut between the orchard and the old sheep fields. No sheep anymore. No fences left either. Only bones and dry posts leaning into the mist.
They walked without speaking. Her aunt never filled silences unless she had to. Mara had grown to prefer it. The quiet let her think, and lately she had too much to think about.
The town came into view slowly, like it didn't want to be seen. Sloped roofs and ash-colored walls. Narrow lanes. A single rusted weathercock turning where no wind moved. At the entrance stood two watchmen, though nobody called them that anymore. Their coats were long and dark. Their eyes tracked every passerby.
Her aunt gave a nod. Mara kept hers to herself.
They headed straight for the square. Half the market stalls stood empty. The rest were guarded by owners too tired to smile and too stubborn to stop showing up. There was no color in their wares anymore. Just dried beans, twisted roots, and cloth so faded it could have been anything once.
At the center of the square stood a stone column with an old iron ring at the top. It used to hold the town's banner. Now it held nothing. The ring just turned and turned when the fog got heavy enough.
A crowd had already started gathering.
Mara didn't need to ask what for. Her aunt guided her to the edge and whispered, "Stay close. Don't speak unless spoken to."
The mayor arrived soon after. Her name was Ysbel Thorn. She wore the same black coat as the watchmen but with silver trim at the collar. She did not smile. She never did. She waited until the square had fully hushed before speaking.
"One family missing," she said. "The Lanes of West Hollow. Gone sometime during the third night. Doors unlocked. Clothes undisturbed. Fire still burning in the hearth. No sign of struggle."
No one murmured. No one gasped. That was how things were now.
"We've begun search efforts," she continued. "Volunteers will be rotated in groups of four. No one goes alone. No one goes unarmed. If you see signs of light where there should be none, report it immediately."
Mara's breath caught.
Light.
Not sound. Not movement. But light.
She looked to her aunt, but the woman's face had hardened.
The mayor finished. "Return to your homes. Curfew remains unchanged. Midnight to dawn."
The crowd began to scatter. No applause. No questions. Just the slow shuffling of boots on stone.
Mara followed close behind her aunt as they turned toward the baker's road. She wanted to ask. She wanted to press. But not here.
Not yet.
When they reached the end of the lane, her aunt paused. She didn't look back.
"They're not coming back," she said quietly. "You know that, right?"
Mara didn't answer.
"I only bring you here so you'll see what people are trying not to say. They're pretending things are manageable. But you and I both know that's not true."
Still, Mara kept her voice steady. "The orchard's changing again."
Her aunt finally turned. "You didn't go near the hollow, did you?"
"No."
Mara lied.
They said nothing else until they reached the gate.
Inside the house, Mara peeled off her coat and boots. The heat from the fireplace hadn't reached the walls. She moved to the window, watching the trees blur behind the fog.
She thought of the mayor's words.
Light where there should be none.
That night, she didn't sleep.
Not because of fear.
Because she saw it.
Out past the orchard.
A flicker.
Not orange like fire. Not white like lightning.
Blue.
Just for a second.
Then gone.
But it was enough.
She rose from bed and pulled on her coat again.
The house creaked as she crept down the stairs.
The cold bit deeper this time.
She opened the door slowly, stepped outside barefoot, and didn't stop until she reached the edge of the trees.
The sky remained empty.
But beneath it, something had begun.