The night air was soft against Aria Bennett's skin as she sat by the open window of her small apartment, staring out at the distant tree line. The world outside had settled into the familiar rhythm of crickets, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional cry of an owl drifting through the silence. It was the kind of night that most people would call peaceful, but peace had never felt complete to her. Not since the day she had lost him.
Aria leaned her elbow against the sill, propping her chin in her palm. She had long ago perfected the art of appearing composed, of living her days with quiet efficiency. She worked at the local library, a job that suited her love of order and stories, then returned home to her solitude, heating tea for one and folding blankets no one else would use. On the surface, it was a life that seemed calm. To anyone watching, she might even appear content. But beneath that stillness was a hollow ache, a lingering shadow of a love that had been torn away too soon.
Damian Blackthorn. His name was a whisper she carried in her blood, a name she never spoke aloud anymore for fear that even uttering it would unravel the fragile control she had built over the years. He had been her everything once, the kind of love that came rarely, if ever, into a person's life. They had been young, too young perhaps, but the fire between them had burned with a certainty she had never questioned. Until the night it ended.
Her fingers curled against the window ledge. She could still remember the way his hand had felt in hers, warm and steady, grounding her when her own doubts had threatened to pull her apart. She remembered the sharp line of his jaw when he smiled, the way his eyes had caught the light like storm clouds about to break. He had been reckless, wild, so different from her own cautious nature, but he had carried her with him into a world that had felt alive in ways she had never imagined.
And then he had died.
The memory struck her with its usual cruelty. The details had blurred over time, not because she had forgotten them but because her heart refused to relive them fully. She had been told it was an accident, a violent one, but the truth had never sat right in her bones. He had vanished from her life in a single night, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his laughter and the kind of pain that does not fade with years.
Aria closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cool frame of the window. How long had it been? Seven years. She said the number in her head and felt a bitter smile twist her lips. Seven years of moving forward because she had no choice, of pretending that she was whole. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but whoever had said that had never known the kind of love that bound itself to your soul. Time had only taught her how to hide the wound better, how to walk without limping even when the scar burned in silence.
The people around her had accepted her solitude without much question. Lila, her closest friend since childhood, had tried once or twice to set her up with someone, but Aria had brushed off the attempts with polite excuses. Eventually, even Lila had given up, realizing that Aria was not waiting for someone new but living with the ghost of someone she had lost. Aria wondered if her friend knew just how deep the ghost had rooted itself inside her, how much of her was still owned by a boy who had become a man she would never see again.
She drew in a breath and looked toward the forest again. The trees stood tall and dark against the night sky, their shapes shifting with the breeze. That forest had always unsettled her a little, not because of any concrete reason but because it carried an air of something ancient and unknowable. As a child, she had spun stories about creatures living in its depths, of secrets that the villagers were too afraid to speak aloud. Even now, grown and rational, she avoided its edges after dusk. Yet tonight her eyes lingered on its shadowed boundary as though something there was calling to her.
Loneliness pressed against her ribs. She felt it most sharply in the quiet hours, when the world slowed and the facade of daily busyness fell away. During the day she could distract herself with tasks, with helping patrons at the library, with sorting through shelves and typing away at the computer. But at night, when the silence was unbroken, there was no hiding from the truth. She missed him. She missed what they had been, what they could have been. And no amount of careful living could change that.
Her tea sat cold on the table beside her, forgotten in her haze of thought. She reached for it absently, then pulled her hand back, deciding against it. Tea would not fill the emptiness in her chest. Nothing would.
Aria pushed herself away from the window and wrapped her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Maybe she would read before bed. Books had always been her refuge, even before she had chosen to work in the library. Stories gave her somewhere to run when her own reality grew too heavy. Yet even in books, she often found herself drawn to tales of love lost and found, of bonds that survived against all odds. She told herself it was because she liked the intensity of those stories, but deep down she knew it was because they mirrored what she longed for but could never have.
She moved through her small living room, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor. The apartment was tidy, every item in its place, as if order could compensate for the chaos inside her. She selected a book from the shelf, its spine worn from repeated readings, and curled into the armchair. The words blurred before her eyes as exhaustion pulled at her, but she forced herself to keep reading. Anything was better than closing her eyes and dreaming of him again. Her dreams always began sweetly, with the memory of his touch, only to end with the crushing reminder that he was gone.
Minutes slipped into hours. The clock ticked quietly in the background, marking the slow passage of time. Eventually her eyelids grew heavy, and the book slipped from her lap onto the floor. She stirred, half-asleep, and thought about dragging herself to bed. But before she could move, the sound reached her.
A howl.
Her breath caught in her throat. It rose from the forest beyond her window, low and mournful, carrying across the night like a thread of sorrow woven into the air. Wolves were not unheard of in the area, but they were rare this close to the village. And there was something about this sound that felt different. It was not just wild. It was haunting, threaded with a strange familiarity that struck deep into her chest.
She sat upright in the chair, her heart pounding. The sound faded, then rose again, longer this time, echoing through the silence like a memory come alive. It tugged at something primal in her, something she did not understand but could not ignore. She felt her scarred heart ache as if the howl had reached inside and squeezed it with unseen claws.
Her lips parted, but no words came out. She gripped the arms of the chair until her knuckles whitened, staring at the dark window. The forest loomed beyond, indifferent and impenetrable, yet she could not shake the feeling that the sound was not meant for the night. It was meant for her.
Her pulse raced in her ears. She whispered his name before she could stop herself.
Damian.
The word trembled into the air, fragile and desperate
The howl answered.
And for the first time in seven years, Aria felt the impossible stir to life inside her chest.