Aurora's Anderson's Pov
They say teachers go home and live quiet lives. Tea, slippers, dead plants, maybe a cat.
Yeah—fuck that.
The moment I locked my apartment door behind me, silence rushed up to greet me like an old, hungry friend. Not warm, not cold. Just there. The kind of silence that knows things. The kind that holds your memories hostage.
I dropped my bag by the coat rack, peeled off my blazer, and walked barefoot into the living room. The place smelled like sandalwood, old paper, and something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe. Or was that just the scent of stillness?
I inhaled deeply.
Home.
Finally.
And yet—
My thoughts had already beat me here.
Those fucking kids. They never understand. Not really. Those books are sacred. Those words can bleed, scream, and sing. That some paragraphs hold entire galaxies if you know how to read between the metaphors.
But her.
That one student.
Cullen.
Elija fucking Cullen.
I sat down slowly on the edge of the velvet armchair—one of those dusty, crimson pieces that looks like it holds secrets.
And maybe it does.
So do I.
I lit a candle. I poured a glass of wine I wouldn't drink. Rubbed my temples.
Why the fuck can't I stop thinking about her?
There's something about that girl. Something I know.
Something that tastes like déjà vu and ashes and candle smoke.
Those eyes.
God, those eyes. Big, haunted. Unreadable.
They flinched when they looked at me.
Like they remembered.
Like she saw something in me I forgot how to see in myself.
I stood up.
Walked to my office.
Locked the door behind me—not because anyone could come in, but because I've learned: some memories don't like to be watched.
The office is my sanctuary.
Books from every century. Stolen pages. Margins filled with ghosts.
And in the far corner—my fucking trophy. The one thing I never should've kept but couldn't leave behind.
A portrait.
Worn, cracked, like it was painted by trembling hands in candlelight.
She stares back at me.
Elija.
Or… someone that looks like her.
No, not looks.
Is.
I stole it from Edward's archive the same way I steal attention—without apology.
He didn't even notice.
It's at least 300 years old. Probably more. I flipped through the journal once, looking for spells or poetry or chaos.
What I found was her face.
Written. Etched. Captured.
Same goddamn eyes.
Same sad mouth.
Same quiet, terrifying grief.
So what the fuck does that make me?
I leaned in, fingertips brushing the frame. My pulse fluttered, not from fear—but memory. But what memory?
I've been dreaming of her since I was sixteen.
A girl in white. A forest. Blood.
And a scream I swear was mine.
But dreams aren't real.
Right?
Except… she's real now. In my fucking classroom. Writing poems about death like she knows it personally.
And maybe she does.
Maybe she's like me.
God.
What if she's like me?
I stepped back. My hands were trembling.
And that doesn't happen.
Ever.
I'm not scared of ghosts. I teach them.
But something in me… recoiled.
Or maybe remembered.
I poured myself another glass of wine. Didn't drink it. Just stared at it like it might give me answers.
Elija Cullen.
You little beautiful haunted fuckup.
What are you?
And why the hell does it feel like I've spent lifetimes trying to find you?
My fingers hovered over the touchscreen, debating whether I regretted dialing the number.
Too late.
The moment it connected, the voice on the other end curled like smoke into my ear.
> "There she is. My daughter. Still terrifying small children with Dostoevsky and eyeliner?"
Jonathan Anderson.
Mafia legend. Master manipulator. Father.
I sank into the leather chair in my study and sighed.
> "They're not small. They're just mentally unarmed. Honestly, I should start assigning instruction manuals instead of literature."
He chuckled. That cold kind of laugh. The kind that makes men sign their lives away on napkins in their blood and pretend it was a deal.
> "You always had my fire, baby girl. But maybe tone it down a bit. You're supposed to be teaching them, not mentally waterboarding them."
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw a past life.
> "Yeah? Maybe if any of them could actually read between the fucking lines, I wouldn't be fantasizing about faking my death and moving to Iceland."
> "Mm, poetic as always."
> "Don't patronize me, old man."
He paused.
Then his tone shifted—subtle, sharp.
> "How's your mother?"
Goddammit.
I stood up, pacing, jaw tightening like a vice.
> "Are you drunk? Or just nostalgic for emotional damage?"
> "I thought you were two—"
> "—Haven't spoken in centuries, Jon. And I intend to keep it that way."
The silence on the line deepened. Even he knew not to push that one.
> "Alright, alright. Shit. I was just asking."
> "Yeah, well—thanks for the trauma callback. You've officially ruined my evening. Goodnight, Father of the Fucking Year."
I hung up before he could say anything else.
My skin crawled with residual rage. Or memory. Or both.
Because Jonathan Anderson wasn't just my dad. He was the Jonathan Anderson. Underground kingpin, literature enthusiast, the man who taught me how to gut a man's pride with a metaphor and a steak knife.
And my mother?
Let's just say… if you think I'm dangerous, you should've met the witch who made me.
I stormed into the bathroom.
Marble tiles. Gold fixtures. Steam already whispering against the mirrors.
Showered in silence.
Rinsed away the day, the blood in my lineage, the questions I couldn't answer.
When I stepped out, I didn't bother with anything fancy.
Oversized T-shirt. No pants. Damp hair falling down my spine like liquid shadow.
I padded barefoot to my bedroom.
Velvet sheets. Black-and-gold everything. A room that smelled like dark roses and unsolved riddles.
I grabbed a book without looking.
It didn't matter what it was.
Words were my lullaby.
Even when they screamed.
I curled up against the pillows. I tried to breathe.
Tried to not think about Elija Cullen's eyes.
Or the portrait.
Or my mother.
Or the fact that I was starting to dream about the girl in white again.
And this time, I wasn't sure I was dreaming.
My last thought before unconsciousness swallowed me whole?
If Elija is what I think she is…
I'm not sure if I want to protect her—
—or burn the world down just to keep her away.