Wrenhaven did not forget.
It kept memories in its bones—the rusted subway rails beneath the ground, the fogged windows of half-closed bookstores, when the crooked street lamps that blinked when someone you missed walked past. It whispered truths in graffiti and silence. It remembered the way you left, and the way you came back.
Avery Quinn had never left. Not really. She stayed behind while everyone else moved on, becoming one more unspoken secret the city had buried beneath the noise.
And now she was being watched again.
She could feel it—that gentle pressure between her shoulder blades, like someone reading a story you didn't mean to write.
She tried to sleep that night, but her dreams wouldn't let her.
In one, her sister stood in the middle of Bellrose Square, face turned to the sky, arms open like she was waiting to be swallowed. The stillness wrapped around her like silk. No sound. No air. No escape.
In another, the silver-haired woman appeared again—closer this time.
"You used to believe in me," the woman whispered, brushing a hand over Avery's cheek. "Before you buried it all."
Avery woke with a gasp. Cold sweat clung to her spine. She hated dreaming. Dreaming always meant remembering.
The next morning, Wrenhaven looked deceptively normal.
Crows gathered around the traffic lights. A newspaper stand sold headlines no one read. A group of teenagers scrolled through spell-locked phones like nothing in the world was wrong. But the air… it had changed.
She passed an alleyway near Portwell Station and felt it—a humming beneath her ribs, like her magic was stirring on its own.
Stillness.
She didn't stop. Not yet. Not without backup.
Instead, she headed to her contact's place. Ezra Rowe—a rouge archivist who lived in the bones of an abandoned library. He collected forgotten books like they were people. Gave them names. Talked to them when he thought no one was listening.
Ezra opened the door before she knocked. His eyes were bloodshot and glowing faintly blue.
"You felt it too," he said.
Avery didn't bother answering. She just stepped inside and dropped her bag by the door.
The library smelled of dust and storm magic. Maps lined the walls—some moving, some burning at the edges. A mug of coffee floated past her shoulder before gently landing on the table. She ignored it.
"There was a woman," she said finally,
"White coat. Silver hair. She walked through the stillness like it knew her."
Ezra froze. The books rustled like birds startled in a cage.
"Tell me you're joking."
Avery tilted her head. "Do I ever joke?"
He sat down heavily, fingers dragging over the spine of an old velvet-bound tome. His voice dropped.
"There's a name for her, you know. In the older texts. She's called the Ferryman's Daughter. Or the Girl Between Hours. She appears when the stillness prepares to move."
"Move?"
Ezra nodded. "Spread. Grow. Change shape. It's not static, Avery. It's alive."
Alive.
She tasted the word like ash in her mouth. Alive meant danger. Alive meant the city wasn't done with her.
Ezra reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out something wrapped in black cloth. He set it on the table between them.
Avery stared.
It was a letter.
Lavender-colored parchment. Wax seal shaped like an hourglass. And her name written in looping, unfamiliar handwriting.
Avery Quinn.
"How long have you had this?" she asked.
Ezra swallowed. "It appeared this morning. Sitting on my pillow."
"And you didn't open it?"
"I'm not cursed, thanks very much."
Avery reached for it.
The moment her fingers brushed the parchment, the seal melted away, like it had only been waiting for her.
Inside was a single line, written in silver ink.
"You forgot the way I looked at you."
-S.B.
Sloane Bennett.
The name clawed through her chest like a wildfire made of memory.
Her hands shook, and not from cold. She hadn't said that name aloud in years. Hadn't even dared to think it for too long, in case it hurt too much.
Ezra watched her carefully. "You knew here."
Avery folded the letter on half and slid it into her pocket.
"I loved her."
Outside, the clouds darkened.
And somewhere far below the surface of Wrenhaven, something began to breath.