18 Years Later.
The air in their old apartment smelled like instant noodles, secondhand furniture, and the ghosts of every questionable tenant that came before them. Eli liked to think it had character. Mira just called it a health hazard.
"You think we'll miss this place?" Mira asked as she hoisted a taped-up box labeled 'Definitely Not a Dead Body' into the hallway.
Eli glanced at her from the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised. "Miss what, the mold or the weird clanking in the walls that only happens when I try to sleep?"
Mira grinned. "That's just Harold. He's part of the plumbing now."
"Rest in peace, Harold," Eli muttered, dragging out the last duffel bag. "You died as you lived. Making my water pressure suck."
They were moving out. Finally.
After nearly a decade of bouncing from one half-dead rental to the next, Eli had pulled it off—the place. Two bedrooms, real hardwood floors, a working dishwasher, and no lingering scent of despair. It was almost suspiciously perfect.
Mira, now seventeen and in her final year of high school, didn't question the miracle. She was used to Eli pulling things out of thin air. He'd always been like that—gritty, resourceful, and stubborn as hell. Working part-time gigs since he was fifteen, saving everything he could, giving up things so Mira wouldn't have to.
He was twenty-three now, juggling college courses and the night shift at a late-night campus café that paid just above minimum wage and smelled like burnt espresso and broken dreams. Somehow, he made it all work.
So when they walked into their new apartment that morning—clean white walls, massive windows spilling in light, and furniture that didn't look like it came from a crime scene—they'd both stood in the entryway, stunned.
"This can't be real," Mira had said. "There's no roaches. I don't trust it."
"Don't say 'roaches' like you're not the one who gave them names," Eli shot back.
"Only the big ones," she said proudly. "That was diplomacy."
—
Now, the sun was setting, casting golden light across the new living room where stacks of half-unpacked boxes leaned like tired soldiers. Mira flopped onto the couch with a sigh that might've been dramatic if she weren't genuinely exhausted.
Eli came out of the kitchen holding two takeout containers and a pair of chopsticks. "We're christening this place with kung pao chicken. It's what our ancestors would've wanted."
"Your ancestors worked in a library," Mira deadpanned. "Mine probably ran scams in back alleys."
He smirked. "So you're saying we're descended from Maren."
Mira snorted. "Honestly? Would explain a lot."
Maren—their pseudo-guardian after their parents vanished—had been something between a con artist, a prophet, and a substitute mom who believed in the power of bluffing through life. She taught them how to read people, how to haggle, how to lie convincingly if they needed to, and how to disappear when they had to.
But despite her colorful moral compass, she'd kept them safe.
"Do you think," Mira started, poking her chicken absently, "they just… left?"
Eli didn't look up. He kept unpacking the cutlery. "Our parents?"
"Yeah." She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. "I mean, no note. No explanation. No 'we're off to space' or 'don't wait up.' Just poof."
Eli's silence stretched just long enough to make her regret asking.
Then he forced a laugh. "Nah, they probably just joined a cult. Or they're in a secret underwater base raising genetically enhanced dolphins."
Mira rolled her eyes but smiled. It was his way of protecting her—from the truth, from his own pain, from everything.
"You're deflecting," she said.
"I'm cooking," he replied, heading back toward the kitchen. "Big difference. Unpack something. Be useful."
She stuck out her tongue as he disappeared around the corner, then turned toward the nearest box.
Inside was a mix of old clothes and books she hadn't touched since middle school. She pulled out a dusty hardcover near the bottom, curious. Its leather cover was cracked, the corners worn and frayed. No title. Just faint gold initials etched into the center: A.C.
"Looks cursed," she muttered. Naturally, she opened it.
Inside were delicate, handwritten pages filled with looping script. At first glance, it read like bad fantasy fiction—talk of veils, rifts, sentinels, and a place called The Hollow Sky. Some entries described cities she'd never heard of, people with eyes like flame, and a strange language that almost shimmered on the page.
But something felt different. Familiar, even.
Then, one page made her freeze.
["Keal's Shield Barely Held. I don't know how many more ruptures we could contain…"].
Mira's breath caught.
She flipped forward frantically, scanning the entries. Dozens of references. Eli. Mira. Over and over. Not fiction. Memories.
She looked again at the cover. A.C.
Adrienne Callen.
"…Mom?"
—
A moment later, Eli poked his head out of the kitchen. "You want mild or full spicy—"
He stopped.
Mira stood in the middle of the room, holding the book like it might detonate. Her eyes were wide.
"You okay?"
She looked up at him, voice barely a whisper.
"I think I found something."
He crossed the room in seconds, instantly alert. "What is it?"
She handed him the book.
He scanned the page, his casual demeanor slipping with every line he read. His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as he read their names. His hands tightened around the cover.
"This is…" he started.
She finished it for him. "It's Mom's."
The room felt heavier.
"Where'd you find this?" he asked.
"In one of the boxes from the attic," she said. "I thought it was a fantasy journal or something. But… Eli, this stuff—it's insane. What does any of it mean?"
Eli closed the book slowly, staring down at the cover like it might answer for itself.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But we're going to find out."