Chapter one
"You can't forget someone who branded your soul."
As Rina sits on the park bench, lighting up her weed and taking slow, deliberate breaths to calm her nerves, the weight of everything hits her at once.
A few moments later, she sat on a splintered park bench, hoodie up, legs crossed, letting the last rays of sunset paint shadows over her worn sneakers. The smoke curled around her face as she took slow, deliberate breaths, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. But it wasn't working. Not really.
Years of anger, sadness, and quiet despair surge through her like a soda bottle shaken too many times—finally bursting open after being sealed tight for far too long. Her phone buzzed again, vibrating insistently on the edge of the bench like an unwanted reminder. Probably her mom—checking in with that strained cheerfulness. Or her aunt, always asking questions without waiting for answers. Or maybe Raya, sending another cryptic message or passive-aggressive meme. She didn't check. Didn't care.
Instead, she let it ring out, the screen lighting up and fading like a heartbeat she refused to acknowledge. The noise dulled into the background as she let her shoulders slump and her thoughts drift. Everything around her—the park, the rustle of wind through trees, the distant sound of traffic—blurred into a quiet hum. She welcomed it. That rare, fleeting silence. That strange, stolen moment of peace where she could finally disappear, even if just inside her own mind. A soft dissociation, a protective numbness, wrapping around her like a blanket she didn't have to explain.
She's a girl who's learned to hide her pain behind sarcasm and smirks, who keeps her rage on a leash but feels it constantly straining. Strong-willed yet emotionally exhausted, she walks through life with a practiced toughness that barely conceals her vulnerability. She's a thinker—always analyzing, always questioning—but never truly feeling safe enough to let go. And now, with the smoke curling around her and silence all around, she finally lets herself feel it.
The smoke slid down her throat like guilt—bitter, familiar, impossible to ignore. She held it there, eyes drifting half-shut as if the haze could soften the weight pressing on her chest, then exhaled slowly toward the sky watching it curl and disappear like secrets she couldn't speak.
Just like always, Rina clocked in with that dead-eyed smile she'd perfected over the years—tight-lipped, polite, just enough to avoid questions. She moved like muscle memory, like routine: headset on, fries dropped, fake cheer in her voice for customers who didn't look her in the eye. A dance she'd done so many times it no longer felt like living. It was just... surviving.
Between rushes, when the line thinned and no one was watching too closely, she'd slip into the bathroom stall and lock the door like it was sacred space. Sit on the lid, hoodie pulled over her head, hands braced on her knees. Breathe. Try not to fall apart.
Sometimes she stared at the graffiti carved into the metal door, just to focus on something that wasn't the rising panic in her chest. Other times, she just sat there, fighting tears she didn't have time to cry. Wondering what the hell she was doing. Who she was. If this was all her life would be—grease, silence, and pretending.
And when her ten-minute break ended, she'd wipe her face, stand up, and pull that same hollow smile back on like armor. Clock out of her breakdown. Clock back into reality.
After a brutal 12-hour shift, Rina barely managed to change from her work clothes before collapsing onto her bed. Sleep claimed her instantly—no ceremony, no resistance—just the weight of exhaustion dragging her under. The mattress, worn and uneven, still felt like a cloud compared to the cold tile floors and fluorescent lights she'd been trapped under all day. She hadn't slept properly in days, and now, wrapped in silence and shadows, her body finally surrendered.
Rina stirred beneath a tangled blanket, half-lost in the haze of sleep, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind wide awake in a dream that felt too sharp to be fiction.
She was back in her room, except it wasn't quite hers—walls faded and flickering, textbooks stacked like monuments around her bed. Pages fluttered as if caught in a phantom wind, scrawled with ink-drenched theories, erratic sketches, and pieces of a name she couldn't stop writing even in her dream.
Ari.
It pulsed from the paper like a heartbeat. Her childhood friend. Her shadow. The girl who vanished without warning—and worse, without memory.
In the dream, Rina sat up, heart thudding, watching her notes twist into something unfamiliar. Nobody remembered Ari. Not their teachers. Not their classmates. Not even Ari's own mother, who once braided her hair every morning and called her moonflower. It was as if the world had swallowed her whole and stitched itself closed without leaving a scar.
She was erased.
Erased so thoroughly, so surgically, that Rina sometimes doubted her own sanity. But the memory clung to her—not like a photograph, but like shattered glass buried deep in mud, glittering only when the light hit just right. Broken pieces. Slivers of laughter, blood-red ribbons tied to swings, late-night whispers about monsters in the woods. And those eyes—Ari's eyes—always watching, always knowing.
In her dream, Rina reached for the name again, but the ink bled across the page, vanishing.
She woke up gasping, fists clenched in her sheets, heart pounding like she was still there—somewhere between memory and myth.
Sometimes, it's hard to tell where reality ends and the lies begin. Like the world is wearing a mask, and she's the only one who can see the cracks. The smiles, the reassurances, the routines—they all blur together until nothing feels solid. Until even her own memories feel like stories she's told herself one too many times.
It was ten years ago when Ari vanished. No body. No headline. Just gone. Erased.
No one cared.
But Rina did. She always had. Even when her twin sister called her obsessed. Even when her dad told her to stop "making shit up" and that she needed to be mentally evaluated. Even when her mom went quiet, to the point where a pin could drop, looked her in the eye, and didn't say she was wrong.
Her dream was shifting—warping, pulling her back to the grind of her shift. The familiar hum of fluorescent lights, the sticky floor beneath her sneakers. Rina was coming out of the washroom, mind still foggy from sleep, when a knock jolted her. Sharp. Male. Not one of the girls.
"Rina." His voice cut through the air, smooth but laced with something darker—velvet dragged over a blade. "Close is done. Need you out here."
Kade.
Her manager. Her irritation. Her complication.
Her obsession, unfortunately.
She clenched her jaw, feeling the weight of his words even in the haze of her dream. She reached into her purse, the familiar motion almost automatic, biting down on a peppermint to clear the taste of stale air from her mouth. A quick spritz of body mist behind her ears, the faint floral scent mingling with the cold artificial air. She tucked the still-warm blunt into an Altoids tin, sliding it back into her purse alongside the spare clothes and gum she always carried. Insurance. Her father had a wolf's nose and a preacher's rage, both equally capable of sniffing out her secrets.
When she stepped out, Kade was leaning against the sink, looking like he owned gravity itself. His black polo stretched across his chest, straining against the effort, as if it resented the assignment. His eyes flicked over her, lazy and unimpressed, not bothering to hide the judgment.
"High again?" His voice was low, unreadable, like the question didn't matter but the answer did.
"I cleaned the lobby, mopped twice, took out the trash." She shrugged, brushing past him. "I'm functional."
His hand caught her wrist—light, but firm enough to make her pulse skip. His fingers were warm, and when she looked up, his gaze was sharp. And wrong.
For a split second, his eyes weren't brown. They shimmered—silver-blue, like frost catching moonlight. Then it was gone. Like a glitch in the air.
Rina froze.
He didn't.
"You play with fire," he murmured, voice low but heavy, as if the words had weight. "You ever wonder what happens when it stares back?"
Her breath caught, confusion mixing with something darker. "What the hell does that mean?"
He let go of her wrist. She turned to leave, pretending the encounter hadn't unsettled her, pretending the hum of heat on her skin wasn't still lingering from where he'd touched her.
But the words echoed in her head.
Because Ari had said something once, long ago—scrawled in purple glitter pen, in the last journal entry Rina still kept:
"Something's watching. It's in the gaps. And it knows we remember."
The alarm started blaring—some embarrassing pop song she'd once liked in high school and never bothered to change. It jolted her awake, and she groaned, slamming her hand down to shut it off.
"Shit," she muttered, blinking at the screen. "I've got like 45 minutes to get ready and get to work."
She moved on autopilot—cold water to the face, minty toothpaste burning away the stale aftertaste of sleep and maybe regret. Clothes were thrown on, hair half-brushed, and a dab of concealer smeared under her eyes to hide how little she'd slept. But none of it helped that buzzing tension still clinging to her skin.
By the time she clocked in and stepped onto the floor, she looked normal. Functioning. Smiling just enough. She even greeted Kade like she always did—dry sarcasm, quick glances, no proof that anything had changed.
But something had.
Because even as she restocked the ketchup packets and wiped down the counter, her mind was spinning. That dream. His eyes. The way he spoke like he knew something. You play with fire. It had felt real. Too real. And now, watching him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn't stop wondering:
What the hell did that dream mean?
And worse—was it even a dream?
Kade was already in the back, leaning over the supply sheet, scrawling something in his tight, impatient handwriting. The same black polo. The same scent—clean soap, fryer oil, and something faintly sharp, like ozone before a storm. He didn't look up when she passed, but she felt it—his awareness. Like he could track her without turning.
"Need you on register," he said, voice clipped.
"Got it," she replied, her tone neutral, almost bored.
She slipped behind the counter, punching in with fingers that still felt shaky. He was acting normal. Or… almost normal. But something in the way he stood felt off—too still, too poised. Like he was waiting for something. Like he remembered, too.
An hour into her shift, while wiping down the ice cream machine, she caught him staring. Not a casual glance. Not managerial oversight. Just… staring. His eyes met hers across the kitchen—brown now, not silver—but still unreadable. Still sharp.
Her stomach flipped.
He looked away first.
And that should've helped. But instead, it made her skin crawl. Like she'd been seen in a way that went deeper than the surface. Like the dream had been a warning.
Rina turned back to the machine, scrubbing harder than necessary, jaw tight.
In her apron pocket, her fingers brushed the folded scrap of paper she always carried—a torn page from Ari's old journal. A line underlined twice in glittery ink:
"It doesn't always wear a face you fear. Sometimes, it wears one you crave."
The lunch rush came and went, a blur of beeping registers and greasy wrappers. Rina moved like muscle memory—smiling, nodding, upselling nuggets with just enough charm to not get written up. She kept telling herself everything was fine. That she was just tired. That her brain was making things up again, like everyone always said.
Then Kade brushed past her.
It was nothing, really—just a quick squeeze through the tight prep line. But as his shoulder grazed hers, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Cold. Sharp. Like walking through static.
"You alright?" he asked, too casually. But his voice was just a little too smooth, like a practiced lie.
"Peachy," she muttered, not looking up.
He lingered a moment longer than necessary. Then:
"Dream anything interesting last night?"
Her hands stilled on the register.
"What?"
Kade didn't repeat himself. Just moved on like he hadn't said it at all, calling out an order number without even looking back.
But Rina couldn't breathe for a second. Her chest felt too tight, her skin too loud.
She pulled out the scrap of Ari's journal again on her next break, holding it like a talisman. Her eyes scanned that same sentence—"It doesn't always wear a face you fear. Sometimes, it wears one you crave."
She suddenly wished she hadn't craved him at all.
The rest of her shift passed in a daze, her nerves like live wires beneath her skin. Kade didn't say anything else. Didn't have to. Every time she passed him in the narrow space between the fryer and the back freezer, she felt it—the tension, the knowing. Like he was watching her without looking. Like he was inside her head, sifting through memories that weren't his to touch.
She stayed late without being asked, cleaning the machines until her hands ached and her uniform clung to her like second skin. Anything to avoid the locker room. The silence. Him.
By the time she clocked out, it was close to midnight. The lot outside was almost empty, just a few cars under flickering lights. She pulled on her hoodie, shoved her headphones in—but didn't press play. Just needed the illusion of control.
Then she saw him.
Leaning against the hood of a beat-up blue Civic, hoodie up, arms crossed like he hadn't aged a day since high school—Caleb.
Rina blinked. For a second, she thought maybe the dream was still bleeding through. But then he smiled—nervous, uneven, familiar. Real.
"Hey, Rina."
She froze halfway across the parking lot, heart suddenly tangled in her ribs. He looked older. Softer around the edges. But his eyes still held that same careful worry. Like he could see the cracks she kept hidden from everyone else.
"…Caleb?" Her voice barely made it past her lips.
He nodded, hands shoved in his pockets. "Been a minute."
She didn't move. Couldn't. "What are you doing here?"
He hesitated. Then said, quiet but certain:
"I remembered her too."
The air inside Caleb's car was warm and smelled faintly of gas station coffee and cinnamon gum. Rina sat in the passenger seat, arms folded tightly across her chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over her fists. The silence between them was heavier than the shift she'd just crawled through.
He glanced at her, then back at the wheel. The keys dangled in the ignition, but he hadn't started the car yet.
"I started remembering things about Ari last week," Caleb said finally, voice low. "Not just flashes. Whole moments. Stuff I'd forgotten I ever knew—like that weird tree in the woods behind your grandma's house. The one she used to draw over and over."
Rina stiffened. She hadn't thought about that tree in years. Not since Ari vanished.
"They came back all at once," he continued. "Like someone yanked them out of a locked box. And I knew I had to find you."
She stared at him. "You remembered… all of that?"
He nodded slowly. "Not everything. But enough to know something's seriously wrong."
The car buzzed with quiet. Outside, the parking lot was empty, the golden arches humming behind them like a false moon. Rina let the silence stretch for another beat—then turned to him, jaw tight.
"Why did you leave?"
Caleb blinked. "What?"
"You disappeared," she said, voice raw now. "No note. No text. Not even a goodbye. I woke up one day and you were just… gone. Everyone else moved on like nothing happened, but you? You knew. You knew what she meant to me. And you still left."
"I—" he faltered. His hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles white. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" she asked, barely above a whisper. "Because I waited, Caleb. Every day. And it was so fucking lonely."
He turned to her then, eyes shining under the dim dome light. "I was scared. Whatever happened to Ari… I think I saw something that night. I didn't remember it until recently, but I think it followed me. I thought leaving would keep you safe."
Her throat tightened. It would've been easier if he'd said nothing at all. But instead, there he was—tangled in the same memories, the same loss, the same fear.
The only one who remembered.
Flashback
The night Ari vanished had been thick with summer heat and secrets. The air buzzed with fireflies and something else—something they didn't have a name for yet.
Rina remembered the three of them—her, Ari, and Caleb—running through the woods behind her grandmother's house. Ari had been carrying that damn journal again, the one she never let out of her sight. She kept stopping to scribble things, muttering about the gaps and the watchers.
"We shouldn't be out here," Caleb had said, flashlight beam bouncing nervously off the trees. "It doesn't feel right tonight."
But Ari had just grinned. "That's because we're close. I can feel it."
Rina had been scared, but she'd followed anyway. Because Ari had that look in her eyes. The one she always had right before something strange happened—like when she predicted a storm that hadn't been on the forecast, or when she drew a man's face days before he'd shown up in town.
Then there'd been the light.
Cold. Pale. Wrong.
Ari had stepped toward it like it was calling her. And then—just gone. No scream. No sound. No wind. Just empty space where her best friend had been standing seconds before.
Caleb had yelled her name, over and over, until his voice cracked.
But she never came back.
Present
"I should've stayed," Caleb said now, voice shaking. "I should've told someone. Told you. I thought if I left, if I buried it, it would stop eating at me. But it didn't. It just got worse."
Rina stared out the window, arms folded, blinking fast. "I'm not mad," she said after a beat. "Not really."
He looked at her, confused. "You're not?"
She turned back to him, and her voice was soft but firm. "I'm disappointed, Caleb. You were my person. My constant. And after she disappeared, I needed you. But you just left. No warning. No goodbye. And that… that broke something in me."
Caleb looked gutted. "I know. I was a coward. And I regret it every single day."
They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the soft clink of Caleb's keys trembling in the ignition.
Rina finally leaned back in her seat, eyes on the cracked ceiling.
"Everything's different now," she whispered. "Kade… he said something from the dream. He knew."
Caleb tensed. "You think he's connected to it?"
"I don't know. But his eyes… they weren't human, Caleb. Just for a second. But they weren't."
He was quiet, then reached over and gently, finally, took her hand.
"We'll figure it out this time," he said. "Together."
And this time—Rina wanted to believe him.
"We'll figure it out this time," Caleb said, his hand closing around hers—solid, warm, real.
Rina didn't pull away.
Not this time.
She let herself lean into the silence, let her eyes flutter closed for a breath, for the safety of knowing someone else remembered. That she wasn't alone in the fragments. That maybe this time, she wouldn't have to carry the whole goddamn mystery on her back.
"I want to believe you," she whispered.
He squeezed her hand once, like a promise. "Then do."
The moment hung there, suspended like a thread of spider silk—delicate and just barely strong enough to hold the weight of old wounds and new truths.
Then Caleb's head turned sharply toward the window.
Rina opened her eyes. "What is it?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared out into the tree line across the lot, where the parking lights faded into shadows. Where only one tall, thin silhouette stood—too still to be a person.
No movement. No features. Just presence.
Rina's blood ran cold. "Caleb…"
"I see it," he muttered. "You see it too, right?"
She nodded slowly, breath catching in her throat. "Yeah."
It was watching them.
Not moving. Not blinking. Just watching.
And the worst part?
It wasn't new.
That shape, that presence—it scratched at something deep in Rina's bones. Something ancient. Something familiar.
She had seen it before. In a dream.
No—in Ari's drawings.
The silhouette vanished without a sound. Not a footstep. Not a rustle. Just… gone.
The warmth between their hands turned cold.
Rina exhaled shakily, heart pounding. "Together, huh?"
Caleb nodded, jaw tight. "Yeah. Together."