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The forest stretched out like an endless ocean of shadows and dampness. Beneath the overcast Forks sky, the trees stood like silent sentinels, leaning heavily as the wind carried a constant scent of wet earth and resin. Edward ran ahead, agile yet restrained, his movements sharper than usual. Every so often, he turned his head, scanning the surroundings with eyes that seemed to calculate every possible escape route. It was obvious he was nervous, worried that the Quileute might be lurking nearby, waiting for the right moment to intercept them.
Nate followed closely, his steps firm, gaze fixed straight ahead. He didn't share Edward's unease; his mind was occupied by a single image, a single destination. The mere thought of returning to his old home kept him in a state of iron concentration, as if every tree they left behind didn't just bring him closer to a place, but to a past left unfinished.
Suddenly, Edward stopped at a bend in the forest. The silence between them tightened until he raised his hand, pointing to a narrow trail opening through the underbrush.
"We have to start walking from here. People sometimes use this path."
Nate nodded without protest. He let out a slow, measured breath, then shut down his lungs entirely, like someone sealing off a dangerous door. He adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt and settled the dark glasses on the bridge of his nose, concealing every trace of what he truly was. The gesture made him seem even more distant, almost unreachable.
The two set off at a human pace. The crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the faint murmur of a stream were the only sounds that accompanied the weight of their silence. Edward looked conflicted, as though every word he rehearsed fell apart before reaching his lips. Finally, in a restrained, almost uncertain tone, he spoke:
"Nate… about your grandmother…"
Nate's response was immediate. He barely turned his head and shook it firmly, without slowing his stride.
"Let's not talk about that yet."
The words hung in the air, solid as a wall. Edward lowered his gaze slightly, respecting the boundary just set. Silence stretched again, heavy, until Nate broke it with a dry sentence, almost as if obliging himself:
"Tell me how Bella's doing."
Edward's change was instantaneous. His eyes, dull moments ago, lit up with a brightness that was hard to contain. A small smile softened his features, as if he had suddenly found solid ground in the middle of a storm.
"Bella's fine. More than fine, I'd say. Ever since Phoenix… we haven't really been apart. She's spent a lot of time at our house, and I at hers. Even Charlie's gotten used to having me around; he actually seems happy with our relationship."
His voice grew more animated as he spoke, as though every memory pushed him to open up further.
"We even celebrated her birthday. It was at her house. For her, it was a surprise: first, I took her to Port Angeles, kept her distracted so she wouldn't suspect, and when we got back… all her school friends were gathered in the living room with Charlie. You should've seen her face when they switched on the lights and everyone shouted her name."
Edward chuckled softly, a sound light and almost musical. His eyes seemed to replay the scene, as if projected before him.
"She blushed, uncomfortable as always when attention's on her, but happy. She didn't stop smiling the whole night. Angela decorated the living room with lights and flowers, Eric even tried cooking something—with… debatable results, but it made her laugh. It was simple, nothing extraordinary, but Bella was radiant. And that's what matters most to me."
Nate glanced sideways at him without interrupting. In Edward's tone, there was more than a story—there was adoration, a love so deep it seeped through every word, every pause heavy with tenderness.
Edward went on, lowering his voice slightly, as though sharing a secret:
"She's… everything to me. When I'm with Bella, the world feels bearable, even for someone like me. She's made Forks, with all its routine and endless rain, the most important place I could imagine. She has no idea how much she means to me. And maybe that's what makes her so special… the way she gives, the way she simply is, without even trying."
Nate didn't take his eyes off the path, but he couldn't help understanding. Edward's words brought him unexpected comfort. He hadn't been there, hadn't shared those moments, but knowing Bella was living joyfully, surrounded by affection and normality, eased some of the weight in his chest. He nodded slightly at Edward's words.
"I'm glad. Honestly, I thought you'd leave… but it's good you didn't abandon her."
The comment made Edward flinch. Those words pierced him with the uncomfortable echo of his own conscience. There was a time, right after the tragedy with Nate's grandmother, when he truly thought about leaving Forks. The idea that his very presence endangered Bella haunted him like a shadow. But then he remembered his last conversation with Nate before leaving for D.C.: he had promised not to run, to stay, to protect what mattered. He couldn't fulfill the second part of that promise… but he swore to uphold at least the first. That determination was what kept him going now.
They walked on, their footsteps muffled by damp earth and fallen leaves blanketing the path. The air smelled of wet bark and pine resin; Nate was beginning to recognize every corner of the terrain, small details that carried him back to a past burning in his chest. They were closer than he expected.
Still with Bella in mind, Nate broke the silence.
"So… have you decided when you'll turn her?"
The words struck Edward with the harshness of a truth he'd been avoiding for months. His expression tightened, just a grimace revealing his frustration, though his voice remained controlled, as if taming a thought tearing at him.
"I don't want her to change, Nate. I've been trying for months to explain, but she doesn't understand. The fact that you're already a vampire… only encouraged her. The subject doesn't feel taboo anymore. Almost every day, she tells me she wants to be like me. But I don't even want to be this. If it were up to me, she'd stay human, with her soul intact, without having to look in a mirror and see… a monster."
Nate fixed his gaze on him, his eyes glinting beneath the hood's shadow. His voice came out low, grave, certain, cutting through like ice.
"I don't share your view. That fantasy of yours ended the moment you agreed to be with her. Do you really think you'll still be together like this in twenty years? You'd only hurt her, Edward. Besides, the power of being a vampire is enough for her to protect herself. All that talk about souls will stop mattering the day a vampire like me shows up, kills her, and you can't do anything about it."
The air between them grew heavy, almost electric. Edward felt a pang of rage just imagining that scenario. The thought of Bella hurt ignited a fire inside him. But beyond the anger and anguish, something else took hold in his mind: confusion.
"What do you mean, a vampire like you…?" he asked, doubt lacing his tone, as though Nate's words hid more than he was willing to reveal.
Nate didn't turn his head this time. His eyes were already fixed on the path ahead, where the trees parted to reveal the familiar silhouette of a street, and beyond it, a house he longed to see again. His voice came sharp, stripped of embellishment.
"A vampire you can't stop."
And with nothing more, he stepped out of the path. Through branches still cloaked in morning mist, the façade of his grandmother's house appeared, untouched, waiting for him like a memory that never stopped hurting.
Edward opened his mouth to reply, but fell silent. He could already hear Nate's thoughts clearly; in a lapse, the boy had let some of his mind slip. That made Edward frown. It was as if, for the first time in a long while, Nate had lowered his guard without realizing it.
Cautiously, Nate looked both ways down the street. Silence surrounded him. Luckily, he detected no one nearby. His grandmother's house looked as peaceful as it always had, as if time itself had failed to break its calm aura. His feet moved slowly, pulling him toward that place he once lived in, now with new eyes—eyes filtered by eternity.
Every step brought him closer, and every detail surprised him. Nate had expected that after so many months of abandonment, the house would be nothing but a shadow of what he remembered. But the sight before him made him shiver. His grandmother's once-neglected garden—barely starting to take shape when he first arrived in Forks—now looked transformed by patient, constant hands. Flowers bloomed in clusters of colors, breaking the monotony of green, with even grass and carefully arranged stones. The façade, freshly painted a light blue, stood out against Forks' perpetual mist like a brushstroke of life amid melancholy.
Nate paused, surprise etched on his face beneath the sunglasses. Clearly curious, his eyes roamed every corner. Edward, a couple of steps behind, watched him closely before murmuring in a low voice, almost as a reminder:
"We should go inside. If anyone sees you here, there'll be no doubt about who you are."
Nate nodded without protest. Even so, he didn't want to enter through the front door. He didn't have the key now and didn't want to force it. He slipped to the side of the house and, with a light, silent leap, entered through the window of the room that had belonged to his grandmother.
As soon as his feet touched the floor, he inhaled instinctively. The air heavy with memories struck his chest. His grandmother's scent still lingered, intact, as if the room had refused to let her go. Everything seemed pristine, frozen in time, just as it had been the last time he saw it. A pang of nostalgia crossed his features.
His steps, slow and measured, carried him through the room. Edward, just slipping through the window after him, stayed silent, respecting the moment and giving him space. Nate reached out gently, brushing the objects he found. Among the neatly arranged clothes, he recognized the books on chakras and auras his grandmother had loved. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he flipped through them. On the nightstand, he found a small quartz bracelet with worn crystals; taking it in his fingers, he closed his eyes and exhaled, as if the weight of memory itself pushed him backward.
He set the bracelet down carefully and left the room. He didn't allow himself to linger in his old bedroom; there was nothing there calling to him now. Instead, he descended the stairs quietly, the wood creaking softly beneath his light steps.
The dining room unfolded before him, more familiar than he expected. Nate had imagined ruin, a place reduced to debris after all that had happened. But it wasn't so. The furniture remained in its places, the same forms as always, though his sharpened senses caught the subtle differences: walls slightly changed, freshly painted or repaired; pieces of furniture restored, shifted only a little.
Nate raised an eyebrow, incredulous, seeing how everything remained almost exactly as he remembered. It wasn't a coincidence—someone had been taking care of this house. He was about to ask aloud when a familiar scent, subtle but unmistakable, stopped him cold.
In a corner, lying beside a small silver urn on the shelf, rested his grandmother's old tabby cat. A wave of warmth washed over him. He stared in surprise at first, and then slowly, a smile spread across his face—genuine, tender, the kind he rarely allowed himself.
Softly, he extended a hand toward the animal, wanting to touch once more that piece of his past. But as soon as the cat lifted its head and recognized him, it hissed sharply, arched its back, and bolted up the stairs. The echo of its paws resounded briefly on the wood until it vanished into the upper floor.
Nate's brow furrowed slightly, the smile fading into a shade of disappointment. Then Edward spoke from behind him, his tone low, offering an explanation both obvious and necessary.
"Most animals fear us. It's instinctive. But if you speak gently to him… he might respond better with you."
Nate shook his head, still staring in the direction the cat had fled.
"Just knowing he's alive is enough. He looks well-fed."
The words hung there, heavy with forced calm. For a few seconds, he said no more, as if those last syllables were a wall keeping him upright. But soon his gaze drifted back, slowly returning to the shelf.
There was the urn. Silver, polished, simple yet solemn, its muted shine catching the dim light filtering through the window. The air seemed to grow denser, time itself contracting around that object.
Nate's eyes softened. The hard mask he'd worn since entering the house cracked a little, revealing something more fragile. He stepped closer and, in a low tone, almost as if apologizing, murmured:
"Hello, Grandma. It's been a while…"
The silence that followed was absolute. Edward, standing behind him, didn't dare interrupt. Nate stood still, his gaze fixed on the urn, as if waiting for an impossible answer, as if that simple greeting could cross the abyss that separated him from her.