Morning came in pieces.
Arlee woke to pale light creeping across her ceiling, the house exhaling around her like it had spent the night holding something back. Her dream clung stubbornly—the woods, Eli's almost-touch, Mara's smile sliding into place like a blade. The charm at her neck lay cool and still, but her skin prickled with the sense that the quiet was not peace. It was preparation.
She sat up slowly and listened.
No whispers. No footsteps under the floor. The house was careful, composed. If it had ears, they were turned outward now, not in.
Down the hall, her mother's door opened and closed. The scent of something bitter—tea or herbs—drifted faintly. Arlee dressed quickly, tugging on a sweater even though the air was warm, and paused at the mirror. For a heartbeat, her reflection lagged—eyes just a fraction too dark, mouth just a fraction too still.
She blinked.
Normal again.
Don't trust what wears your face.
In the kitchen, her mother stood at the counter, shoulders squared, hair pulled back tight. She slid a plate across the table without looking up.
"Eat," she said. "We're not skipping meals."
Arlee smiled faintly. "You sound like Dad."
Her mother's hands stilled. For a second, Arlee thought she might break. Instead, she nodded once. "Good," she said. "Then I'm doing something right."
They ate in silence. Outside, a car door shut. Footsteps crossed a porch.
A knock came at the front door.
Both of them froze.
Her mother's gaze sharpened, and she reached instinctively toward the pocket of her sweater. Arlee stood, heart racing, then stopped herself. Routine, her mother had said. Living.
She opened the door.
Nyla stood there with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a grin that didn't quite mask concern. "Morning, almost-evaporated girl," she said. "Ready to survive another day?"
Relief hit Arlee so hard it made her dizzy. "You didn't have to—"
"I did," Nyla said, stepping inside without waiting. Her eyes flicked to Arlee's mother, then back. "I figured you might need backup."
Her mother studied Nyla for a long moment. Not unkindly. Assessing. "Thank you," she said. "Walk together."
Nyla blinked. "Oh. I was going to anyway."
They stepped outside into a morning that felt too bright to be trusted. Eli waited at the edge of his driveway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture loose but alert. When he saw Arlee, something eased in his expression, like a knot loosening.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," Arlee replied, surprised by how much that single syllable steadied her.
They fell into step together, Nyla between them for half a block before she slowed deliberately, letting Eli and Arlee drift ahead.
"So," Nyla said loudly, "I'll be right behind you. Not listening. At all."
Eli laughed softly. "She's terrifying."
"She's loyal," Arlee said. "Which is worse."
As they walked, Arlee felt it again—that sense of attention, not sharp but persistent. Not coming from Eli. From somewhere else. She scanned the street casually, widening her awareness just a fraction.
The houses looked ordinary. The trees were still. A woman watered her lawn two doors down.
Then she saw it.
A reflection in a car window that didn't match the movement of the street. A shadow that leaned the wrong way. When she focused, it slid back into place, harmless again.
"Do you see things sometimes," Eli asked quietly, eyes forward, "that make you feel like the world blinked?"
Arlee's breath caught. "Yes."
He nodded, as if that settled something. "Me too. Not like—" He hesitated. "Not like you."
She glanced at him. "You don't know that."
Eli's mouth curved. "Fair."
At school, the day pressed in on them quickly. The hallways were louder than yesterday, or maybe Arlee was just more aware of how many eyes existed. Nyla anchored them, chatting easily, pulling Arlee into conversations about teachers and clubs and rumors that meant nothing—until they meant everything.
At lunch, Mara appeared again.
She slid into the seat across from Eli without asking, smile polished and perfect. "You're hard to catch today," she said. "I texted you."
Eli's jaw tightened. "I was busy."
"With?" Mara's eyes flicked to Arlee. "Oh. Right."
Nyla leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice sweet. "Hi, Mara. Funny seeing you here."
Mara's gaze lingered on Nyla, cool and calculating. "Is it?"
The air between them thickened—not supernatural, not overt. Social gravity, pulling and pressing in subtle ways. Arlee felt it like static under her skin.
"Did you hear," Mara said lightly, "about the woods behind the houses?"
Eli stiffened. "What about them?"
"They're closing some trails," Mara continued. "Something about people getting lost. Again."
Arlee's pulse jumped. "Again?"
Mara smiled at her. "You don't know the stories yet. People say if you walk far enough, you come back… changed."
Nyla rolled her eyes. "People say a lot of things."
Mara's gaze didn't leave Arlee. "Some things are said for a reason."
The bell rang, breaking the moment. Mara stood, smoothing her skirt. "See you later," she said to Eli. Then, to Arlee: "Welcome to town."
It sounded like a challenge.
In the afternoon, Arlee felt watched more openly. Not hunted. Studied. The charm warmed once during math, then cooled again, like a warning pulled back at the last second.
When the final bell rang, Nyla caught Arlee's arm. "Walk home with us," she said. "All of us."
Eli nodded. "Please."
They did. The three of them together felt like a small, defiant shape carved out of the day. Halfway home, Nyla slowed again, letting Eli and Arlee drift ahead.
"About earlier," Eli said quietly. "With Mara. I'm sorry."
"You didn't do anything," Arlee replied.
He hesitated. "She… tries to get close to things that matter."
Arlee swallowed. "Why?"
Eli shrugged. "Because she can."
They reached their street. Eli stopped at his porch, hesitating. "Do you want to come over?" he asked. "My parents are out. We could—talk."
Arlee's instinct screamed caution. Her heart whispered yes.
Before she could answer, Nyla cleared her throat loudly. "I can see you from my window," she announced. "Just so you know."
Eli laughed. "That's ominous."
"Protective," Nyla corrected.
Arlee took a breath. "Another time," she said gently.
Eli nodded, disappointment flickering but not settling. "Okay. Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
That night, the house listened again.
Arlee lay awake, senses tuned low and wide. The charm rested warm against her skin. Somewhere beneath the floor, something moved—not approaching, not retreating. Circling.
A whisper brushed the edge of her mind, too faint to catch. She focused on Eli's presence next door, the steady human warmth like a lighthouse in fog.
The whisper withdrew.
Down the hall, a book thudded softly as her mother dropped it. Arlee rose and padded toward the sound.
Her mother stood in the living room, staring at a page, face pale. "It's accelerating," she said without preamble.
"What is?"
"The interest," her mother replied. "You're being noticed."
Arlee's chest tightened. "By what?"
Her mother looked up, eyes sharp. "By others."
A knock sounded at the door.
Three slow raps.
Her mother swore under her breath and slipped something into her pocket. "Stay back," she murmured.
She opened the door.
Mara stood on the porch, hair glossy, smile perfectly polite. "Sorry to bother you so late," she said. "I was walking by and thought I saw someone in your yard."
Arlee's skin prickled.
Her mother's gaze flicked past Mara, scanning the dark. "You're mistaken."
Mara's eyes slid to Arlee, lingering. "Are you sure?"
For a heartbeat, the porch light flickered.
Arlee widened her awareness and felt it—the faint echo behind Mara's smile. Not possession. Not control.
Attention.
Interest.
Mara wasn't a vessel.
She was a door left ajar.
"We're fine," her mother said firmly. "Goodnight."
Mara hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. Welcome again."
She walked away slowly, too slowly, and for just a second, her shadow stretched the wrong way.
The door shut.
Her mother locked it, then turned to Arlee. "She's dangerous," she said quietly.
Arlee's voice shook. "Because she likes Eli?"
"Because she's curious," her mother replied. "And curiosity draws lines others can follow."
Arlee swallowed. "What do we do?"
Her mother met her gaze. "We don't isolate," she said. "We don't give it silence to grow in."
A phone buzzed in Arlee's hand.
ELI: are you ok? saw someone at your door.
Arlee typed back, fingers steady despite the pounding in her chest.
ARLEE: i'm ok. thank you for noticing.
Three dots appeared.
ELI: i always do.
She looked up, toward the window. Eli's light was on again. He stood there, visible and solid, watching—not intruding, just present.
Arlee leaned against the door, exhaling.
Somewhere beneath the town, something ancient shifted, annoyed.
Because Arlee Storm had learned how to stand in the open.
And the more people who noticed her—
the harder she would be to take quietly.