Elija Cullen POV
The alarm clock screamed like a banshee being exorcised in the middle of a war zone.
I reached for it like a sleep-deprived witch possessed by caffeine withdrawal and rage.
Grabbed it.
And chucked it—full force—into the wall.
> "Shut up, you emotionless son of a bitch!"
It bounced off the plaster, made a pathetic little clunk, and died the quiet death of technology that dared interrupt my sleep.
Good.
I blinked at the ceiling for a second. Reality still felt off-kilter—like the dream hadn't quite left the room yet. Like something ancient was still whispering from the shadows under my bed.
Whatever. I wasn't in the mood for existential hauntings before coffee.
I groaned, rolled off the floor—I had fallen out of bed mid-fight with my blanket—and trudged into the bathroom.
Quick shower.
Toothbrush.
Messy black eyeliner.
My war paint.
Outfit of the day?
Black oversized sweater (comfort AND angst).
Blue ripped jeans (because my soul isn't the only thing torn).
Boots that say "don't talk to me unless you brought snacks or deep emotional insight."
Back in my room, I grabbed the shattered remains of my alarm clock like a defeated gladiator and tossed it into the trash.
> Good riddance, you metallic demon.
I took a deep breath and headed downstairs.
And there she was.
My grandmother.
Standing in the kitchen like some celestial being woven from cinnamon, strength, and just the right amount of sarcasm.
The whole house smelled like vanilla and sugar and unconditional love.
It always did when she was here.
Always like home—even when the world didn't feel real anymore.
> "Good morning, sunshine," she called out without turning around. "Care to explain what that bang was? Sounded like a bomb went off upstairs."
I rubbed my temple.
> "I fell out of bed. Tried to murder my alarm clock. It was self-defense."
She chuckled softly, flipping pancakes like some domestic warrior queen.
> "Your mother was wilder than you, you know. When she was your age."
I blinked.
Wait.
What?
> "What do you mean?"
She paused. Too long. Her silence said more than her words ever could.
> "Nothing you need to worry about right now," she finally said, her voice suddenly careful. "With time, Elija. You'll understand it all."
Yeah. Okay.
Cryptic much?
I sat down at the table, still frowning. She slid over a mug of hot coffee and a plate stacked high with pancakes drowning in berry jam.
> "Drink your coffee. Eat your pancakes. And don't argue with an old woman who's already been through more mornings than you can count."
> "Yes, ma'am," I muttered with a dramatic sigh. "But seriously—what the hell does that mean? I'll 'understand with time?' Why can't people just say shit plainly in this family?"
> "Language, young lady," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"Mood," I replied, stuffing a pancake in my mouth.
> "How's that odd friend of yours? The one who talks like a squirrel with a vengeance… Larrisa?"
I nearly choked on my bite.
> "Grandma ! Her name's Lorena!"
> "Well, whatever it is. She's got the spirit of a hurricane and the brains of a fox in a blender."
I smirked despite myself.
> "She's… good. A little unhinged at school. She goes to war with the teachers like she's fighting off the Roman Empire."
> "That's my kind of girl," my grandma said, smiling to herself as she poured syrup like she was summoning ancient magic.
> "She gets me," I added quietly. "Even when no one else does."
Grandma didn't say anything to that. Just patted my hand gently.
God, I loved her.
Even though my parents were gone—too early, too painfully—she had stepped in with her fierce, quiet love and filled that void like a soldier planting flowers on a battlefield.
And yet…
Somewhere inside me, I still missed them.
Their laughter.
Their chaos.
The warmth that only comes from knowing someone saw you born and loved you through every version of yourself.
I stared at my coffee, watching the steam curl like ghosts.
> "Alright, time to go," Grandma said, clapping her hands once. "You'll be late. And I won't write you an excuse that says 'emotional damage and ghost dreams.'"
> "Damn," I muttered. "That was my backup plan."
> "Nope. Eat. Run. Conquer."
> "Copy that."
I hugged her tight—one of those quiet hugs that says everything words don't.
Then I pulled on my jacket, shoved my earbuds in, and opened the front door.
Cold morning air hit me like a slap of truth.
There was fog in the air. Mist curling through the trees like whispers.
Like something was… waiting.
I narrowed my eyes.
No more dreams.
No more metaphors.
Just survival.
Just school.
And picking up Lorena before she climbed onto the school roof and tried to start a revolution with a math textbook.
> "Let's fucking go," I muttered, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.
Time to face whatever the hell the day had in store.