It had been three months since Dad died.
Three long, blurry months.
We weren't "okay" — but we weren't falling apart anymore either. We had learned how to live around the grief, like it was an invisible roommate that never left, always sitting in the corner of every room.
I still trained. Still did my homework. Still kept to myself at school.
Snow slowly found her smile again. She had started sketching in her notebook — not that she'd admit it if you asked.
And Mom… well, Mom cooked more now. She smiled less, but hugged tighter. Her silences weren't empty anymore. They were thoughtful.
We were surviving.
Finals were around the corner — one more month, and I'd be a high schooler. A new chapter. Maybe a fresh start. I wasn't sure yet how to feel about it.
The day I found out everything was about to change again started like any other.
I opened the door after school, bag slung on one shoulder, headphones half-off. Immediately, I heard the voices. Raised. Frustrated.
"No, Mom! That's crazy! We can't just—" That was Snow.
"We have to consider it, Snow. I'm trying to think practically," Mom said, her voice stern but tired.
I stepped in, locking the door behind me.
"What's going on?" I asked, slipping off my shoes.
Snow turned to me, face flushed. "Mom wants to move. Out of New York. To some tiny town in—what was it—Massachusetts?"
"BlackDale," Mom corrected softly, standing in the kitchen doorway. "Your father's ancestral home is there. I didn't even know it still existed until his lawyer called last week. It's been sitting vacant for years."
I blinked. "Wait, Dad had an ancestral house?"
"Apparently so," Mom sighed. "He never talked about it. It was inherited through his mother's side. Quiet little town. Near the coast. It was left to him when his uncle passed… now, it's ours."
Snow crossed her arms. "So that's it? We just pack up and go? Leave everything?"
"Snow—"
"Dad died here, Mom! His grave is here, my school, my friends, everything we built!"
"We can't afford to live here," Mom said, her voice cracking just slightly. "Not long-term. Rent is choking us. I've barely been able to sell a story in months, and even if I do, it's not enough to raise two kids in the city. The house in BlackDale is ours. Paid. No mortgage."
Snow turned away, jaw clenched, fists tight at her side.
Mom looked at me. Her eyes softer now. "Elijah… what do you think?"
I hesitated. I wasn't attached to the city like Snow was. I didn't have friends here. I didn't have places that meant something to me. But still… it was home. In its own way.
"I don't particularly care," I said, honestly. "But I get it. Money's tight."
Snow shot me a glare, but I ignored it.
"I'll be starting high school either way. Might as well do it in a place we don't have to struggle every month."
Snow scoffed. "So now you're just fine with abandoning everything?"
"No," I said calmly. "I'm fine with surviving."
That shut her up for a moment.
Mom rubbed her temples. "This isn't easy for me either, you know. But I have to think ahead. For both of you."
A long silence followed.
Eventually, Mom walked away, saying softly, "Dinner in twenty."
That night, the decision was made.
We were moving to BlackDale, Massachusetts.
A coastal town I'd never heard of. To a house that belonged to a version of my dad I never got to know. Maybe it had a garden. Maybe it had ghosts. Maybe it was just another place for my story to unfold.
But one thing was certain:
My new chapter would start there — and like it or not, I'd find out who I was meant to be in BlackDale.
Oooo
The house was mostly packed. Boxes lined the hallway, taped and labeled in Mom's neat handwriting: "Kitchen," "Snow – Room Stuff," "Books," "Random Junk (Elijah's?)" — thanks, Mom.
It was our last night in New York.
Everything felt… empty. The walls, the air. Even the sounds outside—sirens, car horns, the occasional yelling neighbor—felt oddly distant. Like the city already knew we were leaving and was politely turning down the volume.
I found Snow on the fire escape, curled up in a hoodie with her sketchpad on her knees. She didn't look up when I stepped out.
"You gonna miss this view?" I asked, settling beside her.
"Obviously," she muttered, shading something carefully. "It's the city. You don't not miss New York."
I glanced at her page. She was sketching the skyline, the fire escape, even me—half-finished and slightly ugly.
"You gave me a unibrow."
"It's your soul, not your face," she said without missing a beat.
I smirked. "Nice."
She exhaled, setting the pencil down. "I don't want to leave. I know it's practical. I know Mom's right. But… this place, it feels like Dad."
I nodded, watching a cab roll by ten stories down. "Yeah. I get that."
"It feels like we're leaving him behind," she added quietly.
"We're not," I said. "We're just… carrying him somewhere new. He'd want us to have a fresh start. Besides," I added, nudging her with my elbow, "Massachusetts has, like, whales. And lobster rolls. We'll be fine."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are whales supposed to cheer me up?"
"You're not seeing the bigger picture," I said with faux seriousness. "Imagine this—me, boxing on a dock. You, painting a whale. Mom, writing about how much she hates seagulls. That's family bonding."
Snow cracked a reluctant smile. "You're such an idiot."
"An idiot who will now dramatically recite our new address in a spooky voice." I cleared my throat and spoke in a mock-ghost-hunter tone:
"BlackDale. Population: one creepy house, a few spooky fishermen, and us—the Everstones."
She laughed, really laughed this time, covering her mouth. "God, you sound like a haunted narrator."
I leaned back, arms behind my head. "That's my fallback career if boxing fails. Haunted audiobook voice."
Snow looked at me, smile lingering. "Thanks, Eli."
"For what?"
"For making it feel a little less scary."
I shrugged. "That's what little brothers do."
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm literally one year older."
"Which makes me the cooler one. You're the emotional support unit. I'm the comic relief-slash-muscle."
She laughed again, bumping her shoulder into mine. "Deal."
We sat there for a while in silence, just watching the lights of the city blink like stars that had lost their way.
Whatever BlackDale held — good, bad, or ghostly — we'd face it together.
Like always.
Oooo
We finally crossed the town sign, a weathered wooden board that read:
Welcome to BlackDale – Est. 1761
"Where the Sea Meets the Pines"
Below it, someone had scrawled in black marker:
And weird stuff happens apparently.
Well, that's comforting.
The car rattled over a bump, and Snow groaned beside me, slumped dramatically against the window like a hostage being taken to a remote location.
"I swear if this town has one 'haunted corn maze' or 'local mystery legend,' I'm running into the ocean," she muttered.
"You mean sprinting toward it like an emotional Victorian heroine?" I asked, sipping warm soda from a bottle we bought hours ago.
She glared. "You're not funny."
"I'm hilarious. The corn maze thing was real clever."
"Shut up."
We drove down the main street. It wasn't busy—just a few small shops, diners, a pharmacy, an old-fashioned movie theatre with an actual marquee. Kids were riding bikes. Some older folks sat on benches sipping coffee like they had nowhere urgent to be. The air smelled different here. Clean. Piney. A hint of sea salt in the breeze.
Ava—Mom—looked more tired than usual as she gripped the wheel. "It's not the city," she said softly, "but it's... peaceful."
"Peaceful's code for boring," Snow whispered to me.
"I heard that," Mom said, with that mom-tone that meant she always hears everything.
Snow crossed her arms. "I'm just saying. This town looks like it was designed by someone who really liked Hallmark movies and murder podcasts."
I laughed. "There's probably a suspicious librarian who solves crimes with her golden retriever."
"And a local baker who's weirdly obsessed with peppermint bark."
Ava sighed. "Okay, okay. How about we bribe your city-damaged souls with ice cream?"
Snow perked up slightly, side-eyeing her. "Real ice cream, or that weird low-fat one you sometimes try to pretend is real?"
Mom smirked. "We're not in New York anymore. This is Paula's Ice Cream Parlour. Been here since before I was born. She makes everything herself."
"Elijah's definitely going to eat his weight in sugar," Snow said.
"I train, thank you. This is carb-loading."
"For what? A coastal jog?"
"Possibly."
We pulled into a gravel lot beside a pastel-painted building with a sign that read "Paula's" in curly letters. There were picnic tables outside, a big chalkboard with flavors scribbled all over it—some familiar, some suspicious. (What even was "Maple Bacon Dream"?)