We left before sunrise.
My grandmother didn't speak during the drive. She never did when it was time to disappear. The car smelled like rain and herbs—sage, mugwort, valerian—bundled tightly in muslin and hidden beneath the seats.
They weren't for comfort.
They were for survival.
We'd been using scent-suppressants since I was thirteen. My grandmother said it was the only reason we'd stayed alive this long.
"The wolves may have killed your parents," she told me once, "but they'd finish the job if they knew you existed."
So I drank bitter brews. Rubbed oils behind my ears and over my pulse. Bathed in things that stung my skin and stole the warmth from my hands.
I didn't complain. I couldn't afford to.
Sometimes, I wondered if I even remembered what comfort felt like. The soft ease of a warm bed without protective symbols carved beneath it. A life that didn't require whispered goodbyes or memorizing exits the second we arrived. It was exhausting, but exhaustion was safer than carelessness.
The town we arrived in didn't have a name that mattered.
What mattered was the forest that curled just beyond its edge—dense and old, thick with green silence.
My grandmother chose this place not just for its isolation, but because of what she felt in the ground.
She always said forests remembered things.
And more importantly, forests hid things.
I watched the trees blur past the window as we drove, my fingers tapping absently on the glass. Each new place started this way—a blur, a hum of tires over wet roads, the stale taste of dread in the back of my throat. I wondered, briefly, if this town would be different. If I'd have more time before the next set of boxes appeared by the door.
The trees made it harder to track scent. The herbs grew wild here, too—stronger than the dried, diluted versions she had to smuggle through old markets. There were pockets of power in the soil. Leftover magic. Not enough to bring the dead back, but enough to keep secrets buried.
It was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. Mist curling between the trunks like ghost smoke, birds singing in odd patterns that didn't quite feel natural. This place didn't welcome or reject. It simply watched.
We had a cottage this time. Just two rooms. A roof that slouched to the left. It smelled like damp wood and something that had been forgotten for a long time. I unpacked quickly. My grandmother already salted the windows, hung protective wards, and steeped the herbs for our baths.
"You'll take one every three days," she said. "Don't skip. The full moon's coming."
This time, we'd arrived with a plan.
I'd secured a cafe job weeks before. Sent my new name and references. Jude, the owner, hired me without much fuss.
The place was called The Wren & Bean—warm wood floors, mismatched chairs, a chalk board menu that changed daily. Nothing fancy, but it smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, and the regulars didn't seem like the nosy type.
"Don't serve decaf to the wrong people," Jude said as she handed me an apron. "They bite."
I nodded, and for the first time in weeks, managed a quiet laugh.
I worked quietly, learned fast, stayed out of the way. Nia, another barista, offered to show me where they took breaks, which pastries not to eat, and how to dodge small-town gossip.
By the time my shift ended, I smelled like vanilla and warm milk.
And for a moment—just a moment—I felt almost invisible.
In a good way.
There was a rhythm to the town, I realized. Early risers passed the café before seven. Dog walkers nodded politely. Teenagers loitered near the bookstore steps after school. It wasn't bustling, but it was alive. Gentle, slow, like a breath that hadn't turned into a scream yet. I found myself walking home slower than usual, taking the long way, letting the wind touch my face.
Back at the cottage, I dried off from my ritual bath and opened the small wooden box my grandmother had carved for me years ago. Inside was a single stone—a polished piece of black tourmaline wrapped in old ribbon.
It wasn't powerful, but I'd buried most of my magic already.
I hadn't used it in years. The blood in me pulsed sometimes, quiet and insistent, like a second heartbeat—but I'd learned to keep it silent. I never lit candles with my thoughts anymore. I never read the wind. I never reached.
My grandmother said if the wolves ever felt it—truly felt it—they'd come running.
So I lived as human. Simple. Small.
Sometimes I wondered if the part of me that was magic would wither away. If my mother's blood would eventually go silent. If I would forget the names of the stars and the feel of a spell slipping down my spine. But forgetting meant safety. And safety always won.
That night, I finally opened Micah's note.
It read:
"I think you were more than you let us see. I hope they see it there."
The words hit harder than I expected. Maybe because they weren't just kind. They were right. I had been more. I was more. I just couldn't afford to be. Not yet. But part of me—hidden under layers of scent blockers and years of fear—ached to be seen for everything I was. Not just what I pretended to be.
I folded it carefully and tucked it into the drawer beside my bed.
Then I lay back, staring at the wooden ceiling. Listening to the forest whisper just outside the walls.
The wind moved like a memory through the trees.
And I couldn't help but wonder—what if the forest remembered me, too? What if it whispered my name, even now, into the shadows where something else might be listening?
And I wondered how long it would let us stay hidden.