The sun didn't rise that morning; it simply bled through a layer of grey, oppressive clouds, casting the town of Mystic Ridge in a dull, metallic light. I stood in front of the tall mirror in my bedroom, the one with the tarnished silver frame that had belonged to my mother. I looked at the girl staring back at me, but she felt like a stranger—a carefully constructed sculpture made of glass and grief.
Four months, I thought, the words echoing in the hollow chambers of my mind. Four months since the bridge. Four months since I became an orphan. And today, I have to pretend that I'm okay. I have to put on the mask of Lyra Vance, the girl who has a future, while the girl who drowned in the Wickery River is still screaming under the silt.
I reached for a brush, my movements slow and deliberate, as if I were moving through water. My hair, long and dark, fell over my shoulders like a shroud. I brushed it until it shone, a rhythmic, repetitive motion that grounded me in the physical world. Every stroke felt like a chore, every breath felt like a theft. I wasn't supposed to be here. I was supposed to be in the family plot, lying between my father's strength and my mother's grace.
"Lyra? Coffee's ready. And Jeremy's... well, he's awake, which is a start."
Aunt Jenna's voice floated up from the kitchen, bright and brittle. I could hear the effort in it—the forced normalcy she had been maintaining since she became the legal guardian of two broken teenagers. She was barely older than us, a grad student who had suddenly been thrust into the role of mother, father, and anchor. I felt a surge of guilt, a sharp, bitter pang in my chest. She was trying so hard to keep us afloat, while I was secretly tethered to the bottom of the river.
"I'm coming, Jenna," I called back, my voice sounding thin and unfamiliar to my own ears.
I grabbed my journal from the nightstand. It was a thick, leather-bound book, the pages already half-filled with the ink of my sorrow. It was the only place where the mask could come off. I slipped it into my bag, along with a single pen, and headed downstairs.
The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and desperation. Jenna was hovering over the stove, her hair tied back in a messy bun, her eyes scanning a list on the refrigerator. Jeremy was slumped at the table, his hoodie pulled low over his eyes, staring into a bowl of cereal as if it contained the secrets of the universe. He hadn't spoken more than ten words a day since the funeral. He was drowning in his own way—hiding in the sketches he drew in the margins of his notebooks, dark, jagged things that looked like nightmares made of graphite.
"Morning, Jer," I said softly, sitting across from him.
He didn't look up. He just moved his spoon, a rhythmic clink-clink-clink against the porcelain.
Jenna turned around, offering a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I made toast. And there's juice. We're going to be late if we don't move. First day of senior year, Lyra! It's a big deal."
"Right," I said, picking up a piece of toast that tasted like cardboard. "A big deal."
It's a performance, I reminded myself. Act one, scene one: The Girl Who Survived. Just play the part. Smile when they look at you. Answer when they speak. Don't let them see the water in your lungs.
The drive to the Academy was a blur of familiar streets that now looked alien. The oaks that lined the boulevard were beginning to drop their leaves, the orange and gold hues looking like embers against the grey sky. When I pulled into the parking lot, the familiar roar of student life hit me like a physical wave—the slamming of car doors, the shouted greetings, the laughter that felt far too loud.
I stepped out of the car, and for a second, the world tilted. I felt the eyes. It was a physical sensation, like tiny needles pressing against my skin. The "pity stare." It was the look the town gave me now—a mixture of sympathy, relief that it wasn't them, and a morbid curiosity to see how the tragic girl was holding up.
"Lyra! Oh, my god, Lyra!"
Caroline Forbes appeared out of the crowd like a force of nature. She was vibrant, her blonde hair perfectly curled, her outfit a testament to a summer spent obsessing over the latest trends. She wrapped me in a hug that smelled of expensive vanilla and hairspray.
"You look... well, you look a little pale, but we can fix that! I've missed you so much. We have so much to plan. The Fall Social is in two weeks, and I'm head of the committee, obviously, and I was thinking we could do a heritage theme—"
"Caroline," I interrupted gently, my head starting to throb. "It's good to see you. But I just... I need to get through the first bell."
"Oh. Right. Of course." She pulled back, her expression softening into that dreaded pity. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were... you know. Engaged. We're all here for you, Lyra. Everyone."
"I know. Thank you."
I moved toward the main building, my feet feeling like they were made of lead. Bonnie was waiting by the stairs, her expression more grounded, more observant. She didn't offer a manic hug or a planned social calendar. She just walked beside me, her presence a quiet comfort in the storm.
"My Grams says the air is different today," Bonnie whispered as we entered the crowded hallway. "She says there's a change coming. A deep one."
"It's just autumn, Bonnie," I said, trying to ignore the way my skin prickled.
"No. It's more than that. I feel... twitchy. Like I'm waiting for a bell to ring that I can't hear."
I didn't have the energy for Bonnie's psychic intuitions today. I just wanted to find my locker, get my books, and disappear into the background of a classroom. But as we turned the corner toward the administrative office, the air in the hallway seemed to shift. The temperature dropped, a sudden, localized chill that made me catch my breath.
The noise of the students—the shouting, the lockers banging, the frantic energy—seemed to recede, becoming a distant hum.
He was standing by the office window.
He was tall, dressed in dark, well-tailored clothes that made him stand out against the sea of brightly colored hoodies and varsity jackets. His hair was a soft, ash-brown, styled in a way that felt classic rather than trendy. But it was the way he stood that caught my attention—a stillness so absolute it was almost unnatural. He wasn't checking his phone or talking to anyone. He was just... there.
And then he turned his head.
Our eyes met across the crowded hallway. His were a deep, piercing emerald—a green so intense it felt like looking into the heart of a forest at twilight. They weren't the eyes of a high school student. They were weighted with a gravity that I recognized instantly. They were the eyes of someone who had looked at death and hadn't blinked.
It's him, I realized, a shock of adrenaline jolting through my system. The boy from the bridge. The face I saw in the mist before the sirens came.
The world around us seemed to freeze. I couldn't hear Bonnie speaking to me. I couldn't feel the brush of students passing by. There was only the green of his eyes and the sudden, violent thud of my own heart—the first time it had truly beaten with purpose in four months. He didn't smile. He didn't look away. He watched me with a look of profound, aching recognition, as if he had been waiting a very long time for me to walk around that corner.
"Who is that?" I whispered, my voice lost in the sudden rush of the crowd as the warning bell rang.
"That?" Bonnie looked over, her brow furrowing. "I don't know. New guy, I guess. But Lyra... look at the way he's looking at you. It's like he's seen a ghost."
"Or like I have," I murmured.
The hallway flooded with students rushing to class, breaking the connection. He turned and walked into the office, his movements fluid and silent, like a shadow merging with the dark. I stood there for a long moment, my hand trembling as I reached for my locker.
The mask was slipping. For the first time since the accident, I didn't feel like a girl who was drowning. I felt like a girl who had just been given a reason to swim.
The first period was History, a cruel irony given that my own history felt like a weight I could no longer carry. I sat at the back of the room, staring at the blackboard without seeing it. Mr. Tanner, our teacher, was droning on about the founding of Mystic Ridge, about the pioneers and the "Indian raids" that were the sanitized version of our bloody past.
I couldn't focus. All I could see was the green of those eyes.
Who is he? my internal monologue circled, a bird trapped in a cage. Why was he there that night? And why does he look like he knows every secret I've ever kept?
The door opened, and the room went silent. Mr. Tanner stopped mid-sentence, his chalk hovering over the board.
"Ah, you must be the new student. Mr. Thorne, is it?"
He walked in. Up close, in the harsh fluorescent light of the classroom, he looked even more out of place. His skin was pale, flawless, but with a strange, translucent quality that made him look like he belonged in an old photograph. He handed a slip of paper to Mr. Tanner, his movements economical and graceful.
"Silas Thorne," he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone, a sound that seemed to vibrate in my very marrow. It was a beautiful voice, but it was cold—like the wind over a frozen lake.
"Welcome to Mystic Ridge, Silas," Mr. Tanner said, gesturing toward the back of the room. "Take a seat next to... Miss Vance. Lyra, raise your hand."
I didn't need to. He was already looking at me.
He walked down the aisle, the other students turning in their seats to watch him. He sat in the empty desk beside mine, his presence like a sudden drop in pressure. I could smell him now—not the scent of cologne or soap, but something more primal. He smelled of damp earth, crushed mint, and the sharp, ozone scent of a coming storm.
He didn't look at me as he opened his notebook. He didn't even acknowledge that I was there. But I could feel him. Every nerve ending in my body was screaming, a high-pitched frequency that made my teeth ache.
I tried to focus on my notes, but my hand wouldn't stop shaking. I looked down at my paper and saw that I had written the word River over and over again until the ink had bled through the page.
I'm losing it, I thought, a cold sweat breaking out on my neck. I'm finally breaking. The grief is turning into madness.
Suddenly, a hand moved into my line of vision. It was a pale hand, the fingers long and elegant, the nails perfectly trimmed. He reached out and gently moved my pen away from the ruined page.
I looked up. Silas was staring at me now. His emerald eyes were inches from mine. In the quiet of the classroom, with the drone of Mr. Tanner's voice in the background, he leaned closer.
"Breathe, Lyra," he whispered.
The command was so soft I might have imagined it, but as he said it, I felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of calm wash over me. The shaking stopped. The roaring in my ears faded.
I took a breath—a real one, deep and full—and for the first time in four months, the air didn't taste like water.
"How do you know my name?" I asked, my voice barely a breath.
He didn't answer. He just looked at me for a long, agonizing second, his expression a mixture of hunger and heartbreak. Then, he turned back to the blackboard, as if the conversation had never happened.
The rest of the day was a fever dream. I moved through the halls like a sleepwalker, my senses heightened to the point of pain. I saw him everywhere—in the cafeteria, in the library, standing under the old oak tree in the courtyard. He never spoke to anyone. He never ate. He just watched.
And I watched him.
At the end of the day, as the final bell rang and the school emptied into the afternoon sun, I found him by his car—a classic black 1968 Camaro that looked as pristine as he did. He was leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the road that led toward the ridge.
I walked toward him, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn't have a plan. I didn't know what I was going to say. I just knew that I couldn't go back to that empty house without an answer.
"You were there," I said, stopping a few feet away.
He didn't move. He didn't look at me. "I don't know what you mean."
"Wickery Bridge. Four months ago. You pulled me out of the car. You saved my life."
Silas finally turned to look at me. The afternoon sun caught the green of his eyes, making them look like emerald fire. "You were in a traumatic accident, Lyra. The mind plays tricks when it's under that much stress. It creates heroes where there are only shadows."
"It wasn't a trick," I insisted, stepping closer. I could feel the cold radiating from him now, a physical wall of frost that made the humid air feel brittle. "I felt your hands. They were cold. Like ice. And I saw your face. I haven't forgotten a single second of it."
Silas took a step toward me, his shadow falling over me like a shroud. He was so close I could see the faint, rhythmic pulse in his neck, but his chest... his chest wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing.
"Then you should forget," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Because the boy who saved you doesn't exist. And the boy standing in front of you is someone you should stay very far away from."
He turned and got into the car, the engine roaring to life with a primal growl. He drove away, a blur of black against the grey road, leaving me standing in the parking lot with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering chill of his presence.
He's lying, I thought, my internal monologue a cold, hard certainty. He's lying to protect me. Or to protect himself. But I'm not the girl who drowns anymore. I'm the girl who seeks the truth, no matter how deep beneath the surface it's buried.
I walked to my own car, my fingers brushing the silver locket at my neck.
Mystic Ridge was changing. The fog was rolling in earlier than usual, swallowing the trees and the houses in a thick, white silence. As I drove home, I looked at the Thorne manor on the hill. The windows were dark, but I knew he was in there.
The story was just beginning. The first episode had aired, the characters were on the stage, and the first secret had been whispered into the dark.
I went home and opened my journal. I didn't write about my parents. I didn't write about my grief. I wrote a single name, the ink staining the page like a bloodstain.
Silas.
I closed the book and looked out the window. In the distance, a crow was perched on the power line, watching my house with unblinking eyes.
I wasn't afraid. For the first time in four months, I felt alive.