They left before the sun rose, as if daylight might ask questions neither of them was ready to answer.
The car rolled down the familiar street without ceremony. No one stood on their porch waving. No curtains shifted. The house Arlee had grown up in sat dark and quiet behind them, windows hollow, as though it had already begun forgetting who it once sheltered. For a brief, unsettling moment, Arlee felt certain the house was relieved to see her go.
She watched it disappear in the rearview mirror.
Her mother drove with rigid focus, both hands tight on the steering wheel. The radio stayed off. The silence between them felt intentional, fragile—like a truth that might shatter if spoken too soon.
"Are we safe now?" Arlee asked finally.
Her mother's jaw tightened. "We're less visible," she said. "That's not the same thing."
The road stretched ahead, gray and damp, bordered by trees that leaned in too closely. The farther they drove, the more Arlee felt it—a gradual loosening in her chest, like pressure easing. No hum beneath the pavement. No whisper under the soil.
But something else replaced it.
A pull.
Soft. Curious. Almost warm.
She frowned, pressing a hand lightly to the charm at her neck. It was cool again, inert. Whatever she felt wasn't coming from it.
The town announced itself subtly. No sign, no grand entrance. Just a shift in the air. Houses nestled too close to the woods. Streets that curved instead of running straight. The kind of place people chose because it felt unremarkable.
Arlee felt it the moment they crossed the town line.
Not danger.
Attention.
Her breath hitched. "Something's different."
Her mother glanced at her sharply. "What do you feel?"
"I don't know," Arlee said honestly. "Like I've stepped into someone else's thought."
Her mother didn't smile. "That means it's working."
Their new house sat at the end of a narrow street, tucked between trees and shadows. The paint was faded, the porch slightly uneven, ivy climbing the siding like it had been invited and never told to leave. It didn't feel hostile.
It felt alert.
"This is it," her mother said.
Arlee stepped out of the car and waited for the sensation she'd grown used to—the ground responding, the air tightening.
Nothing happened.
The silence felt… neutral.
Inside, the house smelled like dust and old wood. Smaller rooms. Lower ceilings. Corners that felt closer together, like the walls were keeping secrets. Boxes lined the hallway—too many.
"We didn't pack all this," Arlee said.
Her mother paused. "Some of it was already here."
Arlee looked at her. "Already here?"
"Don't open anything you didn't bring," her mother said calmly. "Not yet."
That answer lodged itself somewhere deep and uncomfortable.
Arlee claimed the back bedroom—the one with the narrow window that looked into the woods. The trees stood close together, branches interlaced like they were conspiring. As she set her bag down, the sensation returned.
Stronger now.
She turned toward the window.
Across the narrow space between houses, another window faced hers. Curtains half-open. Light on.
Someone stood there.
A boy—her age, maybe slightly older. Dark hair falling into his eyes, posture relaxed but alert, like someone used to listening more than speaking. He held a book loosely in one hand, thumb marking his place.
For a suspended moment, he didn't see her.
Then he looked up.
Their eyes met.
The pull snapped into place.
Arlee's heart stuttered—not fear, not alarm, but a sudden, dizzying awareness. Like a string had been tied between them and pulled tight. The warmth spread behind her ribs, unfamiliar and disorienting.
The boy frowned slightly, as if he felt it too. Confusion crossed his face, followed by something else—recognition without memory.
He took a step closer to the glass.
A knock sounded behind her.
Arlee spun around, pulse racing. "Yeah?"
Her mother stood in the doorway, gaze sharp, scanning the room. "Everything okay?"
"Yes," Arlee said too fast.
Her mother's eyes flicked to the window. Her expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.
"Dinner in ten," she said, and left.
Arlee turned back.
The window across the way was dark now. Curtains drawn.
The thread didn't disappear.
It hummed faintly, steady as a heartbeat.
Dinner passed in near silence. Her mother barely ate, her attention drifting inward, outward—anywhere but the table. Afterward, she retreated to her room with several old books and locked the door.
The sound echoed.
Arlee lay awake later, listening to the house settle around her. It creaked softly, adjusting, like it was learning her weight. Outside, the woods whispered in the wind. Somewhere nearby, a door opened. Footsteps crossed a porch.
She closed her eyes and widened her awareness just a fraction.
Nothing answered.
But that warmth—quiet, persistent—remained. Next door. Waiting.
She turned onto her side, staring into the dark. The boy's face lingered in her mind, the way his eyes had widened just slightly when he saw her.
Don't trust what wears your face, her father's warning echoed.
This wasn't that.
This felt real.
That realization unsettled her more than any whisper in the dark ever had.
As sleep finally claimed her, Arlee dreamed not of graves or chains or mouths in the earth—but of standing on opposite sides of a line, reaching toward someone who didn't yet know why he mattered.
And far beneath the town, deeper than roots and pipes and foundations, something ancient shifted—annoyed.
Because Arlee Storm had moved.
And this time, she had stepped into a place where she was not the only one listening.