**Chapter 3:**
Monday, 7:03 a.m.
The spiral behind my ear woke me up throbbing like a second heartbeat.
I rolled out of bed, hoodie still on from the game, and found the locket on my nightstand exactly where I'd dropped it after Mom handed it over last night.
"Grandma Elowene's," she'd said, voice too casual. "She wanted you to have it when we finally settled somewhere permanent."
Permanent. Right.
The locket was heavier than it looked: blackened silver, Gothic Romanian filigree curling like frozen smoke around a single oval of deep-red garnet. In the center, etched so small I needed a loupe to read it, Japanese kanji:
**森羅**
*Morau* – "to receive."
Grandma Elowene had lived in Kyoto for thirty years. Married a Japanese photographer, never came home. Died last spring.
I'd never met her.
But the locket fit against my sternum like it had been waiting for my ribcage to grow into it.
I clipped it on under the hoodie and skated to school through mist so thick the lake looked like it was boiling upside-down.
**1st period – Arkansas History**
Brittany slid into the seat beside me, pom-poms shedding glitter.
"Cute necklace," she whispered. "Antique?"
"Family heirloom."
She squealed quietly. "So mysterious! You should totally let me borrow it for Homecoming court pics."
I tugged the hood higher. "Not happening."
**5th period – Photo Lab**
Mr. Bathory was already at the enlargers, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms pale as film base.
He didn't look up when I walked in.
"Miss Moreau. The print you exposed Friday night. The one with young Mr. Tsatoke."
My stomach dropped.
"I want it for the yearbook spread. Full page. Caption: *'Freshman phenom or phantom?'*"
He finally met my eyes. "Bring the negative. Now."
I hadn't even developed that roll yet.
Seras was waiting in the darkroom, red safelight bleeding across her cheekbones like war paint.
She held my film canister between two fingers like it was diseased.
"Looking for this, Valentina-chan?"
I lunged. She stepped back, canister disappearing into her blazer pocket.
"Give it."
"Make me."
The spiral behind my ear flared white-hot. The locket followed—garnet burning a circle against my skin.
Seras's eyes flicked to it and narrowed.
"So the old witch finally passed it down."
"Grandma Elowene wasn't—"
"Don't." Seras's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't you dare say her name like you knew her."
She stepped closer. The safelight made her red streak look wet.
"My family served the Nakamura covenant for four hundred years. Shadow binders. Blood seals. We kept the mist *contained*. And every single time the Morau clan breezed in with their pretty lockets and their 'receiving' gifts, the council chose *you*. Kyoto, 1923. Prague, 1889. New Orleans, 1865. Every generation, the Morau get the power and the Nakamura's the scraps."
I backed into a tray table. Developer sloshed.
"I don't even know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." She pulled out a negative strip—old, brittle, edges curled. Held it to the safelight.
A little girl on a Kyoto rooftop, platinum hair in twin braids, holding a tiny skateboard.
Fresh spiral tattoo behind her ear glowing silver.
Same face as mine.
Same locket, newer chain.
Behind her, a woman in a black kimono—Grandma Elowene—pressing the locket into the girl's hands while a ring of Nakamura elders knelt in the background, heads bowed.
The little girl was smiling at the camera as she'd just won something.
Seras's voice dropped to a hiss.
"That was the day the council voted to bind the next Receiver to the Hot Springs vein. Your grandmother stole the covenant from my great-grandmother. And now you're here to finish the job."
She flicked the negative at me. It fluttered to the floor like a dead moth.
"The locket isn't jewelry, Celeste. It's a key. And the valley's been waiting seventy-three years for someone dumb enough to turn it."
The darkroom door opened.
Mr. Bathory stepped in, shadow stretching wrong across the floor.
"Miss Nakamura. Out."
Seras didn't move.
He repeated, softer. "*Out.*"
The mist vents hissed. Fog curled around Seras's ankles like it was dragging her.
She spat one last word in Japanese—something that made the safelight flicker—and left.
Mr. Bathory picked up the Kyoto negative, held it to the light.
"Your grandmother was… persuasive," he said quietly. "Elowene Morau could convince the mist to kneel. A rare gift."
He handed me my own film canister—Seras must've dropped it.
"Develop your print, Celeste. But know this: every photograph you take with that locket on steals a memory from the valley. And the valley *always* collects its debt."
He brushed a thumb across the garnet. The locket snapped open for the first time.
Inside: a tiny mirror.
My reflection stared back—eyes molten silver, mouth smiling like the little girl in Kyoto.
But the reflection blinked one second after I did.
I slammed it shut.
**After school**
I developed the Friday night roll alone.
The touchdown shot came up perfect: Remy mid-throw, braid flying, scar glowing.
Behind him, the coyote mist pack—eight strong—galloping across the turf.
Every single coyote had **my face**.
Platinum hair. Silver eyes.
And every single one was wearing the locket.
I cropped the print tight on Remy's face, hands shaking so bad the enlarger danced.
When I pulled it from the fixer, the photo was warm—like body temperature.
A wet fingerprint appeared on the border. Not mine.
Written in fresh red developer:
**The Receiver has arrived.
The Nakamura girl will try to break the chain.
Let her.
Some locks only open when you bleed on them.
—J.B.**
I wore the locket to bed that night.
At 3:33 a.m. it burned cold.
The mirror inside cracked down the middle.
Through the fissure, a woman's voice—Kyoto accent, Romanian lilt—whispered in perfect English:
**"Receive carefully, Celeste.
The valley gave you its heart.
Now it wants yours back—with interest."**
I looked out the window.
The mist had formed a perfect spiral on the glass—exact match to the tattoo, the scar, the locket.
It spun once.
Slowly.
Like a key turning.
The locket is warm now.
It has a pulse.
And it just whispered your name in two languages.