Elle's Pov
Friday drags. It's the kind of morning that feels too slow, yet hyper-aware of every passing second. The minute I heard Damain leave to run, I snuck out of the penthouse back to my apartment.
I'm supposed to be halfway to Ridgeway by now; the community shelter, the literacy drive for children Damian had promised to volunteer for. I'm standing by the window, checking my phone for the fifth time.
Nothing. Just the three missed calls from yesterday that I still haven't returned.
I scroll through them again, even though I already know who they're from. It doesn't help.
10:30 a.m. He's an hour late.
I pull my hair into a ponytail and stare at the mirror. The volunteer shirt hangs loosely on me, the blue Ridgeway Hope logo a bright, mocking contrast to how gray I feel inside.
"Fine," I talk to my reflection. "With or without him."
I dial Camila. She answers after a while, the sound of rustling papers in the background.
"Hey girl! What's up? I was worried, you didn't even tell me you'd be sleeping over."
"I'm so sorry, Cam. Yesterday was hell. Gosh!" Then a pause. "He's still at the office, isn't he?" I ask.
"Who?" she asks, absentmindedly. I could hear the ruffles of papers from her end.
"Dam..."
"Oh! I don't know. Saw him earlier on," Cam says, her voice distracted. "But I've been downstairs all morning. The new pitch is chaos, half the team's surviving on caffeine and denial. But no, haven't seen him all afternoon. Why?"
"He was supposed to be at the shelter with me."
"Girl... relax. He's probably buried in meetings. He might still show."
"Yeah," I murmur. "I'm out of here. Thanks, Cam."
"Wait." She stops typing. "Are you okay? You sound weird. Like you're half-somewhere else."
I take a slow breath, my fingers pressing against the cold window glass. "My visions. They've changed since that night with the Blackwells. The nightmare that particular night, very weird. Something I've never seen. Now, my visions are... broken. I see flashes, but the lights cut off halfway through. It's just noise."
The line goes quiet. "That's not normal for you," Cam says softly.
"I know. It feels like something is blocking me. Or maybe I've lost it."
"Don't say that," Cam replies quickly. "You haven't lost anything. Maybe it's just your mind's way of protecting you. You've been through a lot lately."
I wish I could believe her. "Maybe."
Cam hesitates. "Is also be about your mom. Have you thought about going back this weekend?"
I freeze. That word, Mom, hangs like a weight between us. It's been years.
"She's been asking about you, Elle. Don't you think it's time?"
I don't answer. I just stare at the window, my reflection ghosted against the glass.
"Elle?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'll think about it."
Cam sighs. "Fine. If you go, I'm coming with you. Someone has to keep you from bolting halfway there and I'll need the distraction."
That makes me smile. "Thanks, Cam."
I hang up and the room feels instantly hollow. I grab my keys and head out. If Damian shows up, fine. If he doesn't... I'll manage. I always do.
As I reach the gate, my phone lights up; just the faint glow of the home screen. No message. Just my reflection staring back.
For a second, I could swear I hear his voice in my head. The memory flickers and fades before I can catch it.
And just like that, it's gone. Like all the other visions lately.
*****
The Ridgeway Shelter smells of floor wax and sugar cookies. Kids are everywhere; laughter bouncing off the primary-colored walls, crayons rolling under table. Someone's playing the guitar in the next room. A clumsy, happy tune. It doesn't fit the heaviness in my chest.
I've been here two hours. Helping them draw, read, stack supplies. A girl with pigtails tug at my sleeve, and holds up a book upside down.
"Read this one," she says.
I smile, even though my chest feels hollow. "Sure, Lila."
She sits cross-legged on the mat while I read about a bear who can't find his way home. The words blur sometimes, but I keep reading to her, my voice steady, but my eyes keep drifting to the door.
Stupid. He's not coming.
A boy spills a jar of glue nearby. It streaks across the table, thick and translucent. Everyone scrambles. I kneel to help, and as my hand brushes the floor, the world rips open.
A flash. Static. A heartbeat thundering in my teeth. Someone gasping for air. The sound of glass shattering into a thousand pieces.
I blink, gasping. Lila is staring at me, wide-eyed. "Are you okay, miss?"
"Yeah," I force a smile, though my hands won't stop shaking. "Just tired."
By the end of the event, I'm drained. My shirt smells of paint and glue. The kids wave goodbye, and I wave back, smiling like it doesn't hurt.
The walk home feels longer than usual. Every passing car sounds like someone calling my name. When I reach my building, my fingers are cold.
The second I get home, I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and collapse on the couch. The ceiling fan hums, a low, rhythmic drone that drags me into a dark, unwanted sleep.
*****
The dream starts with silence, the kind that warns you to run.
I'm in a garden under a bruised, dark-green sky. The air smells of wet earth. There are stones everywhere, half-buried in the grass. Graves.
I walk past them, the names faded and moss-covered, until one stands out.
CAMILA MOORE.
My heart stutters. No. That's impossible.
I kneel, the dirt pressing cold against my skin. Beneath her name, the numbers are carved deep into the stone:
Born: 2001. Died: 2026.
Next year.
Three months from now.
The letters glow faintly, like the ground is breathing.
I try to scream, but my throat is full of ash. A woman stands behind the tombstone, her body a blur of fog. I recognize the silhouette.
"Mom?"
She lifts her head. Her face flickers like a dying lightbulb. "You can still change it, Firefly," she says softly. "Come home."
The sky rips open. Rain falls so hard it feels like stones.
*****
I jolt awake, gasping for air. My shirt is soaked in sweat. The room's dark, and the ceiling fan's still spinning.
This wasn't just a dream. It's a countdown.
I'm already moving before the fear paralyzes me.
I pull open drawers, grabbing jeans, a sweater, my charger. My hands shake so badly I drop my phone twice.
Three months. I'm not letting her go.
I call Camila, pacing the room. "Pick up, Cam. Come on."
Voicemail. I try again.
Nothing.
"Cam, it's me," I say into her voicemail, my voice trembling. "We're leaving tonight. You need to come home right now. Just... please call me."
I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look wild. Pale. Terrified.
"Not if I can help it," I whisper to the empty room.
I zip the bag and sit on the edge of the bed, watching the door, waiting for her to walk through it.