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The breathing was a knife stabbing his throat with every stride. The damp forest floor gave way under his boots, soaking his ankles, making it even harder to keep pace—but he couldn't stop. Not now. Behind him, the snap of broken branches and a low, deep, animal growl kept him moving.
The air was thick with fog; dense, almost tangible, seeping into his lungs with every painful inhalation. The dark, twisted trunks seemed to close in like bars around his escape, as if the forest itself wanted to trap him. He ran, dodging roots that rose like traps, feeling his heart tear inside his chest. The sound of heavy footsteps followed him with relentless precision, growing closer with every second. Something enormous was behind him. Something that breathed with a wet growl, as if swallowing the night itself.
He dared to look back. Through the mist, he glimpsed a copper-colored mass gliding between the trees with impossible agility for its size. Two eyes shone in the darkness, wild, reflecting a primal fury. Fear shook him so violently that he barely noticed the root that caught his foot. He stumbled, almost falling, but forced himself to keep going, staggering, his throat burning like fire.
He ran without direction, with the sole goal of not being caught, until desperation pushed him to glance over his shoulder again. A grave mistake. Time seemed to slow: as his head turned, his body collided violently with something hard, solid, immovable like a wall.
The impact threw him to the ground. His breath was knocked out of him, and the world spun chaotically. The smell of wet earth filled his nose as his face slammed into the mud. Dazed, he slowly lifted his gaze.
In front of him, very close, impossible eyes watched him: red as burning embers, intense, too human to belong to an animal… and too inhuman to belong to a man.
Panic strangled his throat. There was no air. No way out.
A blink later, he bolted upright, gasping as if he had nearly drowned. Sweat ran down his temples, his chest heaving violently with each inhalation. Everything was dark except for the familiar silhouette of his room, dimly illuminated by the gray light filtering through the window.
It was only a dream. A nightmare.
Charlie Swan brought a hand to his face, trying to calm the trembling that still shook his fingers. The memory of those eyes haunted him even awake.
CHARLIE POV
Charlie rose heavily, as if still carrying the suffocating weight of his nightmare on his chest. Every movement seemed to drag with it a dense, almost physical fatigue. He stood slowly, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, letting out a low growl. He had never liked weekday days off; they always felt useless, a waste. But now he hated them more than ever. He would have preferred a thousand times to bury himself in work at the station. His coworkers, however, had insisted he take a break. They said he seemed absent, as if walking with his mind elsewhere.
Charlie frowned at the thought. He hated being treated delicately, as if he would break at the slightest touch.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Dawn had barely passed; the light filtered through Forks' gray clouds, tinting the room with a cold, whitish hue. Bella would be ready for school in a matter of minutes.
Dragging his feet to the bathroom, he splashed his face with ice-cold water. The shock made him squeeze his eyes shut as if the cold could erase the traces of the nightmare. He paused a second in front of the mirror, examining his reflection under the yellowish light. His mustache was in place, trimmed with the precision he always maintained, but the surrounding beard had grown out wildly, unkempt. Lately, he hadn't bothered with the razor, and this morning would be no exception. With a heavy, resigned sigh, he took a quick shower and dressed in comfortable clothes, something simple in case he needed to go out.
Downstairs, the faint smell of toast and coffee greeted him, a reminder of routine. He found Bella in the kitchen, quietly having breakfast. That morning, she seemed subdued, eyes fixed on her plate. Yet when she noticed him, she looked up and gave a small, forced smile, showing him her breakfast as if trying to comfort him with a simple gesture. Charlie silently appreciated it. He had woken up later than usual and had no energy to cook.
He sat with her but immediately noticed something strange: Bella was unusually quiet.
Charlie tried to lighten the mood, forcing a spark of cheer into his voice.
"Ready for school, Bells?"
Bella nodded without looking at him, shoving the last bits of toast into her mouth. Then she got up from the table in a hurry, as if trying to escape the conversation.
Charlie watched her, puzzled.
"What's wrong? Edward isn't here to pick you up yet…"
Bella's expression tightened immediately, discomfort evident. She walked toward the door without looking at him.
"No… this week I'll go alone."
Charlie rose, following her with concern, frowning.
"What's wrong? Did you fight? Did he do something to you?"
She stopped abruptly, turning to him.
"No, Dad, it's nothing. I just told him I wanted to go in my truck. Besides… I'll see him at school. Nothing's wrong."
He observed her silently. It was obvious she was lying, but he didn't press. His frown stayed, but he swallowed his questions.
Bella moved to the threshold of the door, and before leaving, turned to him again, her voice lower, almost worried.
"Hey, Dad… are you staying home all day?"
Charlie felt uneasy. He brought a hand to his belt, trying to sound casual, though inside he burned with unease.
"No, daughter, I'll go out to eat or something. Don't worry."
She nodded, though not entirely convinced. The morning had slipped by, and it was already late. With a small wave, she climbed into her truck and drove off to school.
Charlie remained on the porch, watching her disappear down the wet street, with a sharp sensation that something was off. The fog hung between the trees like a thick veil, and for a moment he thought he saw a shadow moving among them. He blinked, and there was nothing.
The memory of the red eyes returned, and a shiver ran down his spine. For a second, his heart jumped, a sudden reminder of his own vulnerability piercing his chest. He forced himself to breathe deeply and stay calm. He wasn't the kind of man who let panic take over; he couldn't afford it, not for Bella. As the head of the household, he had to be a rock, a firm anchor in his daughter's routine, even if inside he felt as fragile as a paper leaf, light and trembling, at the mercy of the wind of his own thoughts.
Dragging his feet, he returned to the kitchen to finish his breakfast. He wasn't really hungry, but he knew he needed something in his stomach, a minimal fuel to sustain him through the day. Every bite felt heavy, as if the weight of his thoughts had soaked into the food, turning the simplest act into an added effort. His movements were slow, mechanical, barely conscious, as he chewed without truly tasting.
When he finished, he went to the fridge and took out a can of beer. He sat on the couch without turning on the TV, letting the silence envelop him. A heavy, dense silence that seemed to absorb any spark of cheer. For a moment, he considered calling Billy or Harry but immediately dismissed it. He had insisted too many times; they were always busy. The thought pushed him back in time, remembering his adolescence: all the friends from the reservation went out together, and he was left out, observing from a distance. Then there was Richard, his only friend, not from the reservation, but now no one lived in town. A brief spark of nostalgia crossed his eyes. He had no one to share his silences with, no one to confide in.
He looked at the unopened beer, exhaling a deep sigh that seemed to carry all the sleepless hours and unresolved thoughts. He lifted it, staring at it a moment longer, evaluating whether it was worth opening, and finally returned it to the fridge. Thinking of Richard made him uncomfortable, a weight on his chest mixed with sadness and guilt, a sensation pushing him to do anything to avoid being trapped in those memories.
He stood and went to his toolbox with a heavy, almost brusque gesture. He opened the lid, rummaged a little inside, and pulled out a belt loaded with tools and work utensils. He slung it over his shoulder, letting its weight remind him that there were things to do, concrete objectives, however small, to keep him moving. He walked to the door, steps slow but determined, with no hurry or urgency, just moving, as if movement alone was enough to avoid getting trapped in his thoughts.
Before opening the door, he paused, as if a late thought came to mind. He went back to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of fruits, carefully placing them in a paper bag. He held them for a moment, lost in thought, weighing whether he would really need them. But he didn't let the moment stretch too long; he had to move on. With the belt on his shoulder and the bag of fruit in hand, he walked to the patrol car.
He climbed in, closing the door with a dry click echoing in the silent garage. He started the engine and heard the familiar roar, a constant sound that seemed to bring a minimal sense of stability. He drove away from his house along the wet, empty streets, with the fog clinging to asphalt and trees, the sensation of daily routine slowly, joylessly beginning, accompanying him like a silent weight.
As he drove, Charlie's gaze wandered over the few people walking along the street. The day was still fresh and humid, the typical Forks fog hanging low over asphalt and rooftops. Not many people were out; it was early, a weekday, and the town was still waking calmly. Even so, seeing smiling faces and light conversations gave him a slight relief, a small warmth seeping through the heaviness of his mood. It was like watching a picture of life going on while he remained trapped in his gray routine.
He continued along the route he knew too well, the same one he had traveled for months, etched in his memory as much as the asphalt in front of him. Every curve, every leaning tree, every pothole seemed memorized. He drove slowly, letting the neatly trimmed gardens, familiar houses, and messy mailboxes pass before his eyes. The damp mist tangled with lampposts and roofs, and the garden shrubs seemed asleep, wrapped in a dense silence contrasting with the distant murmur of the town.
When the last familiar houses were behind him and the flow of people had disappeared, he finally reached his destination: Mrs. Winter's house. A small, almost involuntary smile appeared on his face at the sight of the blooming garden. For months he had worried nothing would grow there, that the plants would die without care, but apparently, his efforts had paid off. The colorful flowers, still wet with morning dew, offered a brief moment of quiet beauty. He began slowing down until stopping in front of the main door, letting out a small sigh, a subtle gesture that seemed to release some of the tension in his shoulders.
He was about to grab the belt and the paper bag he had left on the passenger seat… when something caught his eye in the window. There, in profile, arms raised to the height of the neck, he saw a hooded figure. At first glance, it looked like a young man holding something, but the hood and sunglasses gave it a strange, unsettling air.
Charlie's breath caught for a moment; his chest tightened and a fleeting memory returned: those horrible red eyes, intense and impossible. His heart skipped a beat, and for a second, time seemed to stop. But when he blinked, the window was empty, showing the house alone as always.
Charlie got out of the car quickly, leaving the belt and bag on the seat without thinking. He didn't even make sure the door was fully closed. With hurried steps, still unsure exactly what he was doing, he ran toward the house, with the confusing feeling of fleeing something that might only exist in his mind. His head spun, replaying memories and sensations he couldn't decipher.
He flung the door open roughly. The keys nearly fell, but he managed to get inside. His breath came fast and shallow, his heart pounding. When about to cross the threshold, he noticed that inside, there was no one. He forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down, leaning on the doorframe. The house was empty, silent, and calm, exactly as always. The walls seemed to absorb any sound, and the echo of his own steps confirmed his suspicion. It was evident that everything had been a trick of his imagination… yet a spark of doubt ignited in his mind, faint but persistent.
Cautiously, he began walking through the house, observing every corner carefully. Every object, every piece of furniture, seemed exactly as he had left it. He glanced at the stairs; no sound, no movement. Finally, he let out a long sigh and stood still in the middle of the dining room for a few seconds, letting his breathing return to a steadier rhythm.
When he felt calmer, he moved toward the shelf where Mrs. Winter's ashes rested. His fingers brushed the urn delicately, almost as if this were his way of offering a greeting. But then something made him stop.
Something that hadn't been there before caught his attention: a pair of rings, carefully placed, rested naturally beside the urn, almost like a small offering. For a second, Charlie's brow furrowed, and he looked around as if expecting someone to appear to claim the rings. The surprise in his eyes mixed with a faint sense of unease…