POV: Maya Chen
The GPS announced my arrival in Crescent Hollow with all the enthusiasm of a funeral director. You have reached your destination.
I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
My Honda Civic—packed so tightly with my entire life that the rearview mirror had become decorative rather than functional—rolled down Main Street at exactly 3:47 PM on a Thursday that felt suspended between seasons. October in the Pacific Northwest apparently meant the sky couldn't decide between rain and shine, so it chose a moody grey that made everything look like it had been dipped in watercolor and left to bleed.
"Charming," I muttered, taking in the town that would be my home for the foreseeable future. Or forever. I hadn't decided yet which terrified me more.
Crescent Hollow looked like it had been designed by someone who'd read exactly one book about "quaint mountain towns" and taken it as gospel. Brick facades that had probably been standing since the logging boom. String lights zigzagging between old-fashioned lamp posts. A town square with an actual gazebo, because apparently those still existed outside of Hallmark movies.
And trees. God, so many trees.
They crowded the edges of civilization like patient sentries, tall and dense and impossibly green despite the season. Sitka spruce, Douglas fir, Western red cedar—my mind catalogued them automatically, a holdover from the environmental design courses I'd devoured in grad school. The forest pressed in from all sides, making the town feel less like a settlement and more like a temporary agreement between humans and wilderness.
Humans always lose those negotiations eventually, whispered a strange thought that didn't feel entirely like my own.
I shook my head, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Three days of solo driving, gas station coffee, and podcast deep-dives into architectural theory had clearly scrambled my brain.
My phone—propped precariously on the dashboard in a mount that had seen better days—chimed with a text. I didn't need to look to know it was from Rebecca.
Sure enough: Tell me you're alive and haven't been murdered by a hitchhiker serial killer.
Despite everything, I smiled. Rebecca Chen-adjacent (she'd added the hyphenate after we'd been roommates for three years in college) had been sending increasingly dramatic texts since I'd left Seattle seventy-two hours ago.
I thumbed a quick reply at the red light: Alive. Crescent Hollow looks like a Twilight reject set. Will report back on sparkling vampires.
Her response was immediate: If you meet a hot werewolf, I'm visiting immediately.
The light turned green. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and focused on navigating Main Street, which curved gently upward as the town climbed into the foothills. My apartment—according to the email from Cascade Property Management—was on Pinecrest Drive, somewhere in the "charming residential area overlooking the town center."
Real estate speak for "you'll be climbing a hill every day, enjoy your glutes."
I turned left at a corner cafe called The Crescent Grind (points for commitment to the theme), then right onto a narrower street where the houses stood farther apart, separated by tall fences and even taller trees. The pavement here was older, cracked, with tree roots creating speed bumps that nature had installed free of charge.
"Pinecrest Drive," I read aloud as I turned onto a street that was more tunnel than road, evergreen branches forming a canopy overhead that blocked out what little light the clouds were allowing through. "Number 4237... 4229... 4237. There."
The house was a converted Victorian, painted a soft grey-blue that would've looked sophisticated in Seattle but here seemed almost defiant against the surrounding wilderness. It had been divided into four apartments, according to the listing. Mine was 4237B—second floor, two bedroom, one bath, "cozy" (small) with "original hardwood character" (the floors creak).
I'd signed the lease without seeing it in person. That's how desperate I'd been to leave Seattle.
No. Not desperate. Decisive. There was a difference.
I pulled into the gravel driveway, putting the car in park and killing the engine. For a moment, I just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring up at the building that represented either my fresh start or my biggest mistake.
"You can do this," I told my reflection in the rearview mirror. The woman staring back looked tired—dark circles under almond-shaped eyes, black hair scraped into a messy bun that had given up any pretense of style somewhere around the Oregon border, skin that had always been pale but now looked nearly translucent.
I looked like someone running from something.
Which was accurate, even if I didn't want to admit it.
Don't think about Ethan. Don't think about the apartment you shared. Don't think about coming home early from the site visit to find him—
"Nope." I said it out loud, sharp and final. "Not doing this."
I shoved the car door open with more force than necessary and stepped out into air that tasted different from Seattle. Cleaner, somehow. Wilder. It carried scents I couldn't quite name—pine sap, damp earth, something almost like honey, and underneath it all, a musk that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Probably just a deer. Or a bear. Did they have bears here? I should probably know that.
The front door of the main house opened, and a woman emerged who looked like she'd stepped out of a L.L. Bean catalog—all practicality and weatherproof layers. Sixty-ish, with steel-grey hair cut in a no-nonsense bob and eyes that assessed me with the efficiency of a general surveying troops.
"Maya Chen?" Her voice carried easily across the driveway.
"That's me." I forced a smile and walked toward her, very aware that I was wearing leggings with a suspicious stain (coffee, hopefully) and an oversized Seattle University hoodie that had belonged to Ethan before it had belonged to me.
I really should've thrown that hoodie away. Adding it to the list.
"Dorothy Brennan. I manage the property." She stuck out a hand, and I shook it. Her grip was firm, calloused. "Welcome to Crescent Hollow. Long drive?"
"Three days from Seattle. Took the scenic route." That was generous. I'd taken the "I need to process my entire life falling apart" route, which had involved several unplanned stops at viewpoints where I'd sat in my car and stared at the Pacific Ocean like it had answers.
It hadn't.
"Well, you picked a good time to arrive. Weather's been cooperative this week." Dorothy gestured toward the sky, which looked actively hostile. "Your apartment's ready. Let me show you up, then I'll leave you to unpack. I'm in the main house—4237A, ground floor—if you need anything. Other tenants are quiet. We don't get much drama here."
Perfect, I thought. I've had enough drama to last a lifetime.
She led me up an external staircase—wooden, solid, with a railing that had been carved with an intricate pattern of vines and leaves that seemed almost to move in the corner of my vision. I blinked, and it was just wood again.
Definitely needed sleep.
"Here we are." Dorothy unlocked the door—actual key, no modern keypad—and pushed it open. "Two bedroom, like the listing said. Bathroom's updated. Kitchen's small but functional. Heat and water included in rent."
I stepped inside and felt something in my chest ease slightly.
The apartment was small, yes, but it had good bones. Original crown molding, tall windows that would let in light when the sun remembered it existed, hardwood floors that were scuffed but real. The living room opened directly into a kitchen with white subway tile and vintage fixtures that someone had clearly restored with care.
"The bedroom with the better closet is to the left," Dorothy continued. "Other one's smaller—good for an office or storage. Washer and dryer are shared, in the basement. Trash day is Tuesday. Any questions?"
About a million, none of which had to do with the apartment.
What am I doing here? Why did I think moving to a town where I know literally no one was a good idea? What if this is just running away instead of moving forward? What if—
"This is perfect," I said instead. "Thank you."
Dorothy studied me for a moment, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she could see straight through me. Then her expression softened slightly. "You're starting at Morrison & Associates, right? The architecture firm?"
"Monday morning. I'm their new junior architect." The position had been a miracle—I'd applied on a whim after seeing the posting on an industry board, and they'd offered me the job after a single video interview. Too easy, Rebecca had said. But I'd been too desperate for an escape route to question it.
"Good firm. They do a lot of work around here—commercial, residential, some government contracts." Dorothy handed me the keys. "My advice? Give the town a month before you decide you hate it. Crescent Hollow grows on people."
"Like moss?" I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth, but Dorothy just laughed.
"Exactly like moss. Slow, persistent, and before you know it, you're covered." She headed toward the door. "I'll let you settle in. Welcome home, Maya."
The door clicked shut behind her, and suddenly I was alone.
Alone in a strange apartment in a strange town in a strange chapter of my life that I hadn't planned and wasn't sure I wanted.
I walked to the living room window and looked out over Crescent Hollow. From here, I could see the town center, the maze of streets, the forest pressing in from all sides. Dusk was falling, and lights were beginning to flicker on in windows across the town—small golden squares of life and warmth.
Somewhere down there was the life I was supposed to build. The career I was supposed to resurrect. The person I was supposed to become now that I'd been carved in half and forced to figure out which pieces were actually me.
My phone buzzed. Rebecca again: Send pics of the place! And yourself so I know you haven't been replaced by a pod person.
I smiled and raised the phone to take a selfie. Through the screen, I saw myself framed by the window, the darkening town behind me, and for just a second—so brief I almost missed it—I could've sworn I saw something moving in the tree line beyond the house.
Something big.
Something watching.
I lowered the phone, heart suddenly hammering, and pressed my face close to the glass.
Nothing. Just trees and shadows and the ordinary darkness of a forest at dusk.
"You're losing it, Maya," I whispered.
But I couldn't shake the feeling as I turned away from the window and headed down to my car to start unloading my life, box by box.
The feeling that something had been out there.
The feeling that something had bee
n waiting.
The feeling—impossible, irrational—that I'd finally arrived exactly where I was meant to be.
Even if I had no idea why.