The soft drone of organ music filtered through the hallway vents, muffled by walls too thick with old silence.

  Alex stood in front of the narrow window in her childhood bedroom, watching the driveway where no one parked anymore except for the pastor’s guests and her father’s ever-pristine sedan.

  The sunlight barely touched this side of the house—dim, filtered, and cold as the mood inside.

  Her reflection in the gss looked sharper than she remembered. Her eyes too luminous. Her features too composed. Like a painting instead of a person.

  Downstairs, the dishes clinked faintly in the kitchen. No one had invited her to breakfast. She hadn’t expected it.

  Since arriving two days ago, the mood had stayed tense and cold. Her mother offered nothing but brittle nods.

  Her father didn’t speak to her at all. Her younger sister, Abigail, had been the only one to say anything to her face.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Alex hadn’t answered then. She didn’t answer now. She just stood quietly, feeling the chill in her bones—not from the house, but from everything it no longer was.

  Her room still had all the trappings of who she'd been: the shelf of old devotionals, a wooden cross above the door, a framed quote from Romans etched in soft gold.

  Do not conform to the pattern of this world.

  The irony of it made something twist in her stomach.

  She looked down at the thin research pamphlet in her hand. Verity had sent it a few nights ago, her message blunt but curious:

  You should read this. It's about you. You might find the conclusions interesting.

  Alex hadn’t told her she was home, but somehow Verity always knew more than she let on. The paper’s title read:

  Observational Notes on Hemotropis luxura: Identity, Adaptation, and Integration.

  Alex hadn’t told her she was home, but somehow Verity always knew more than she let on. The paper’s title read:

  Observational Notes on Hemotropis luxura: Identity, Adaptation, and Integration.

  She didn’t care for the terminology. None of it captured what it really felt like—what it meant to have every gnce linger a second too long, for strangers to mistake reverence for warmth. Or for fear to wear politeness like a suit and tie.

  The door creaked behind her.

  Abigail stood in the hall, one hand on the doorframe, her posture poised like she was prepared for something dramatic. Her expression wasn’t angry—just closed off. Unmoved.

  “You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

  Alex didn’t turn. “That’s the pn.”

  Abigail hesitated, then added, “They think you’re going to snap one day. Just so you know.”

  A long silence stretched between them.

  Alex looked at her reflection again, eyes unreadable. “And what do you think?”

  “I think you already did.” Abigail’s voice didn’t shake. “You're just pretending you didn't.”

  Then she left.

  Alex listened to the organ music shift tones, pying a slower, older hymn she hadn't heard since she was a teenager.

  She wondered what Hazel would have said to a house like this—what kind of expression she would have worn, surrounded by this polite suffocation.

  Probably nothing. Probably just a graceful, patient smile that said more than words ever could.

  She pulled on her jacket and slung the bag over her shoulder, her fingers brushing the pamphlet once before tucking it back inside. Her gaze passed over the empty walls of her room—bare now, but still full of old echoes.

  This pce wasn’t home.

  Not anymore.

  And she couldn’t wait to leave it behind.

  The house had grown quiet again, which was worse in some ways. Silence was too fertile here—every creak of the floorboards felt like it carried an old sermon, every still moment an accusation.

  Alex sat on the edge of the bed, her phone in hand, thumb hovering over Hazel’s name. She wasn’t one to reach out easily.

  Even less so when she didn’t know what she needed to say. But the weight in her chest had grown too sharp to ignore, and the silence was getting too loud.

  She pressed call.

  It rang once. Twice.

  Then Hazel answered.

  “Hey,” Alex said, trying for neutral, but failing. Her voice had a thin edge to it—tired and frayed.

  There was a soft pause before Hazel replied. “Are you alright?”

  Alex exhaled slowly, staring at the old crucifix above her door. “Not really.”

  Another pause. “Do you want me to come over?”

  Alex didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “Only if you’ve got time.”

  “I have time.”

  ...

  Hazel arrived just past noon. The front steps creaked as she ascended them, and for a moment Alex wondered how that would sound to her parents. The presence of something—someone—so composed, so inarguably other, walking up to their door.

  She opened it before Hazel could knock.

  Hazel stood there in a dark fitted coat, the soft shine of her blouse peeking through at the colr, her hair swept over one shoulder. Her eyes, golden and calm, settled on Alex without judgment.

  “You came,” Alex murmured, stepping back to let her in.

  Hazel did, her gaze flicking briefly around the narrow foyer. She said nothing of the religious décor or the house’s oppressive hush. She didn’t need to.

  “Anyone home?” she asked, softly.

  “My dad’s at work. Mom’s hiding in her room. Abigail’s at choir.” Alex gave a dry, crooked smile. “You’re safe. Probably.”

  Hazel looked amused for half a second, but her expression softened again when she caught the heaviness beneath Alex’s voice. “Want to talk about it?”

  Alex gestured upstairs. “Only pce I can promise no one will eavesdrop.”

  They climbed the creaky staircase in silence. Hazel moved like she weighed nothing—every step measured, quiet.

  There was a grace to her that didn’t belong in a house like this, and yet, she filled the space without apology.

  Alex’s room was dim again, the blinds drawn. Hazel looked once around the walls, noting the framed verses, the absence of personal touches. She didn’t comment.

  Alex dropped onto the bed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I hate it here.”

  Hazel sat down beside her, not touching but close enough to feel real.

  “I keep thinking I can be stronger than this,” Alex said. “That I can come back and it won’t get to me. But it always does. No matter how much I change, they only ever see what they think I’ve lost.”

  Hazel was quiet for a moment. Then: “You haven’t lost anything.”

  Alex gave her a sideways gnce. “They’d say I’ve lost everything.”

  “They’re wrong.”

  It was said so simply, so surely, that for a beat, Alex didn’t know what to say.

  Hazel looked at her then, fully. “You didn’t become something terrible. You survived becoming what you were meant to be.”

  Alex blinked once. That was what it always came back to with Hazel—she never offered comfort in the form of denial. Only crity.

  “I didn’t want to be anyone’s warning,” Alex muttered.

  “You’re not,” Hazel said. “You’re the answer to someone else’s question. Even if they don’t know what they’re asking yet.”

  Alex stared at her for a long, quiet beat.

  Then finally, a small ugh escaped her lips. “You always talk like you stepped out of a poem.”

  Hazel smiled faintly. “Would that make this a tragic one?”

  Alex shook her head. “No. Just one I’m still trying to understand.”

  The tension in Alex’s shoulders had eased some. It wasn’t gone, not entirely, but it had shifted—coiled less tightly. She leaned back on her hands now, feet tucked beneath her as Hazel sat beside her, legs crossed neatly at the ankle.

  “I still can’t believe you actually showed up,” Alex said, letting a smirk py at her lips. “Most people would’ve just sent a text and dipped.”

  Hazel tilted her head slightly. “I told you I had time.”

  Alex gave a short ugh. “Yeah, but I figured you’d be out doing something more gmorous. Brooding under mplight or dazzling freshmen or whatever it is you normally do.”

  Hazel offered a lopsided smile, graceful and dry. “I thought dazzling could wait.”

  They shared a small ugh, and for a moment, it was quiet again—but a kinder kind of quiet.

  “Do you always talk like that?” Alex asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like everything you say could be stitched onto a silk pillow in a haunted mansion.”

  Hazel made a soft sound—something between a scoff and a chuckle. “It’s not intentional.”

  Alex shook her head, still smiling. “I don’t mind. It’s better than most people I know, who talk like a Yelp review.”

  Before Hazel could answer, the distant sound of the front door opening broke through the calm.

  Footsteps. Two sets—one heavier, one lighter, coming down the hall.

  Hazel’s posture didn’t change, but her gaze flicked toward the door, attentive. Alex stiffened.

  “Abigail’s home,” she muttered. “And… that’s Dad with her.”

  The knock came just as Alex stood.

  Abigail didn’t wait for an answer—she pushed the door open with the wide-eyed urgency of someone in a rush. “Alex, you won’t believe what Sister Margaret sai—”

  She stopped dead, eyes locking on Hazel.

  Behind her, their father appeared. He was still in his work shirt, colr open, frown already forming.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, sharp and low.

  Hazel rose to her feet in one fluid motion. She didn’t shrink under the attention. Her expression was calm—polite, even—but there was an unmistakable weight behind her gaze.

  “I’m a friend of Alex’s,” she said smoothly. “A new one.”

  Their father’s eyes narrowed. Abigail blinked between the two of them, already sensing something off.

  Before he could respond, a third voice—Alex’s mother—called from down the hall. “Is something wrong?”

  And then she was there too, face pinched, gaze falling immediately on Hazel.

  For a heartbeat, no one said anything.

  Then Alex stepped forward, pnting herself between Hazel and her parents. “She came to check on me. That’s it.”

  “You brought her here?” her mother asked, her voice barely concealing its distaste. “Into our house?”

  Hazel said nothing, not yet. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone filled the room more than any words could.

  Alex’s father looked Hazel up and down, then addressed Alex, ignoring Hazel entirely. “You think this is appropriate? Bringing someone like her—”

  “Someone like what?” Alex snapped, voice rising.

  Hazel touched her arm gently. Just enough.

  But Alex wasn’t backing down. “She’s done more for me than either of you ever have. She actually listens.”

  Her father’s mouth tightened. “She’s dangerous.”

  “No,” Hazel said, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “I’m disciplined. There’s a difference.”

  That gave them all pause.

  Hazel’s gaze stayed level on them. Measured. Unblinking.

  Alex turned back to her parents. “She’s not going anywhere unless she wants to.”

  The room swelled with tension, brittle and tight.

  Hazel, calm as ever, turned her gaze to Abigail—who stood frozen in the doorway, unsure whose side to stand on.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Hazel said gently.

  Abigail blinked. “Uh… yeah. You too.”

  Hazel smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.