The hardest part is getting out of bed each morning.When you live at 30 Maple Street, in a house that smells perpetually like barbecue, with a police chief dad and an alarm clock that dies randomly, daily life always comes with a hint of disaster.
When the alarm died for the second time, I gave up and flung it to the floor, grabbed a T-shirt and pulled it on, catching a whiff of expired floral scent—Mom's, still lingering from the half-used perfume bottle she left behind three years ago.
"Liv!" Dad's rough voice called from downstairs. "You're gonna be late!"
According to tradition, I spent exactly forty-three seconds in front of the mirror today. Teeth (no spinach), pockets (last night's "Missing Pet" flyer—Dylan's handiwork), backpack (books intact), hair—uncooperative, and therefore ignored. I dashed downstairs with untied shoelaces, brushing past Dad in the kitchen as he clutched his usual cup of black coffee, forehead creased.
"Dylan picking you up?" he asked.
"He's probably out front planting bugging devices again," I replied with a grin, earning a silent nod from him. Since Mom vanished, our father-daughter bond had scattered into fragments of routine—we avoided the spaces she used to fill.
Even when cloaked in fog, the morning sun on Maple Street made the red maple leaves look stained with blood. The breeze carried the scent of toast—and something else. Something sticky and uneasy. The town felt a bit too quiet lately, especially with the rise in missing animal cases.
Dylan's rickety mountain bike rattled up just as I stepped onto the front path. He leaned it against the mailbox and waved.
"I have a new theory," he whispered conspiratorially. "Cave-dwelling mutant pigs are abducting the pets."
"Can we not do pigs on a Monday morning?" I sighed.
He grinned, pulling off his helmet. "So, which drunk did your dad chase down last night?"
"Don't change the subject," I said, nodding at my backpack. "You got today's rumor mill ready?"
"Oh, today's a big one," Dylan said, eyes lighting up. "New transfer student. Out-of-towner. Has a ridiculously dramatic name—Lucien Volkov."
"Lucien?" I snorted. "Sounds like a vampire. Or a third-episode plot twist villain in a detective series."
"Exactly!" Dylan beamed like he'd cracked a government code. "Group chats across town exploded last night."
Campus was its usual mess of noise. A cluster of underclass girls had already formed under the oak tree, whispering excitedly about "the new kid." The morning light turned the chalk dust on the blackboard into ugly cloud shapes, and the air reeked of chips, erasers, and musty textbooks.
Sliding into my window seat, I'd just pulled out my book when I heard the click of heels in the hallway. Every eye locked on the door—even Stacy, the class underachiever, paused mid-mascara swipe.
The door opened.
A boy stepped in—measured, composed, like someone edited in from a black-and-white film. His suit was immaculate, collar fastened to the top, and his skin was so pale it bordered on theatrical. His gaze floated over us like we were pinned under glass—specimens on display.
"This is Lucien Volkov," said Ms. Porter. "From… uh, Eastern Europe. He'll sit—Olivia, yes, next to you."
I froze in my seat, mentally prepping a joke to break the ice, but instead found myself gripping my sleeve. Lucien sat down with the utmost care, like afraid to break something fragile, and subtly shifted his desk one finger's width away from mine.
"Hi," he said softly, with a voice carrying an antique European lilt and a curious touch of formality.
I tried to sound unfazed. "Hi. Welcome to… Vampire Street. I mean, Maple Street."
He raised an eyebrow, lips curving faintly. "Thank you. Do you like horror stories?"
I nearly choked on my own breath and gave a dry chuckle. "Uh, yeah. Your name just sort of screams vampire. Unless you're into garlic pizza and sunbathing, don't worry—no vampire hunters in this town."
He blinked slowly, smile deepening in a way I couldn't quite read. The silence that followed felt like a fog spreading through the air.
"I'm not… sensitive to garlic," he said, the words unnervingly rehearsed.
Just then, Stacy popped over with a packet of jellybeans, swooping in. "Lucien, need a tour guide? I totally know this school inside-out!"
Lucien gave her a polite but distant glance and shook his head. "Thank you, but Olivia and I are talking."
The words landed like a surprise stone in a pond. Stacy shot me a look that could freeze lava before stomping away. I whispered, "Not in a rush to make friends?"
"Friendship is… complicated," Lucien replied, eyes drifting to the crimson leaves outside. His voice sounded like it had been weathered by time.
From the back row, Dylan lobbed a paper note onto my desk:"New kid: Suspicion Level 9. Reply ASAP."
I rolled my eyes and glanced at Lucien, who seemed to sense every sideways glance in the room.
When the bell rang, Lucien rose without even scraping the chair. I noticed girls around us weaving quiet webs of curiosity while he looked out the window, expression unreadable.
In the hallway, Dylan pounced. "So? Score out of ten? Are we getting Twilight vibes?"
I laughed. "Twilight? Don't insult him. At least he knows how to button a shirt."
Just then, Lucien passed by, wearing an expression somewhere between curiosity and caution—like a newly rescued animal adjusting to captivity. His ears twitched slightly, like he could hear gossip from a mile away.
"He's too cool," Dylan muttered. "Definitely hiding something."
"You say that about every new kid," I replied. "Maybe he just works the night shift at a gas station."
P.E. class. The girls conveniently "accidentally" arranged Lucien and me on the same team. Under the sun, his skin looked even paler, his breath quieter than everyone else's.
"Where are you from?" one guy asked.
Lucien's eyes drifted far off. "A small town, long gone. No longer on the map."
I caught a slight stumble in his stride—like he wasn't used to his own shoes or this world's tempo.
"You must love the smell of high school gym socks," I joked.
Something shifted in his face, and he finally gave a soft laugh. "Your sneakers do have a unique… aroma."
Lunchtime. The cafeteria was a furnace of grease and chatter. Dylan, Lucien, and I found a spot in the corner. Dylan was in full investigator mode, watching Lucien like a hawk. Lucien delicately poked at his spaghetti like it was a museum exhibit.
"You like American food?" I asked.
Lucien nodded. "I like local flavor. Though it's a bit… salty."
Dylan chimed in. "Been to the old cemetery?"
Lucien shook his head, blank-faced.
"You should! It's totally haunted." Dylan handed him an A4 sheet—a self-made "Map of Local Unsolved Mysteries," full of cartoon ghosts and arrows pointing at spots marked weird activity.
"Thanks," Lucien said, fingers grazing the paper like something was stirring beneath it. But the moment passed, and his face returned to that careful blankness.
Outside, the sunlight hit his cheek just right. He twitched ever so slightly, pulling up his collar. A subtle movement, easily missed—but I noticed.
Then the lunchroom speakers buzzed on:"Due to recent pet disappearances, students are advised to travel in groups after school."
The usual murmurs and shrugs followed. I stared at Lucien's shoes, wondering if every step he took landed just on the edge of some hidden shadow.
It felt absurd, but real—the sense that he was a piece dropped into our game, a new rule in play, and none of us knew the changes yet.
When the final bell rang, the halls became a stampede. Lucien packed up with the same precise care as always.
"Want a tour of the town?" I offered, casually.
He hesitated—then nodded.
Dylan immediately tagged along, eyes wide, phone recording snippets of hallway gossip about the "vampire transfer student."
Maple Street at dusk was steeped in amber leaves and long shadows. The main drag looked like a vintage postcard looped on repeat, and Lucien was the one jarring note in the melody.
As we passed an alleyway, a group had gathered—another pet missing. Just a patch of black feathers and a faint trace of blood.
Dylan lit up. "Liv! First on the scene!"
Lucien stared at the feathers, then looked away. Standing in the bruised sunset, he seemed to be listening to something only he could hear.
My hand reached for my backpack. I felt the flyer from this morning—the missing pet one. My chest tightened. Beneath the chaos, a quiet certainty began to rise:
Nothing would be normal again.
On the walk home, Dylan rattled off theories, Lucien replying with vague amusement. As we reached his house, the last sliver of sun hit his hand—his skin turned faintly gray.
Later, Dad came home and collapsed on the couch, watching the news. Another segment on the pet disappearances. He turned to me, voice quiet and dry.
"Dinner's later. Don't stay up too late."
I looked out the window. Night crept over Maple Street. Lucien's shadow still lingered in my mind.
Everything felt wrong, breathless with tension—and his arrival was like a new moon slipping into orbit. A hidden world had cracked open, tucked within the everyday folds of life.
Tomorrow, nothing would be the same.