The morning in Jaywick, Britain, was as gray and dull as ever. The distant cries of seagulls drifted through the low-hanging clouds, a faint reminder of the sea just beyond the worn streets. Inside a cramped, shabby kitchen, twelve-year-old Ellowyn Vale stood in front of the open fridge, scanning its near-empty shelves with growing frustration.

  Half a jar of pickles and a stick of butter stared back at her.

  She sighed heavily, slamming the fridge door shut with a thud that rattled the rusted hinges.

  "Allison!" she called out, her voice sharp as she stormed toward the single bedroom in their tiny house. "Allison! When are you going to go food shopping?"

  Silence greeted her.

  Ellowyn banged on the bedroom door, the dull sound reverberating through the quiet house. She waited, gritting her teeth, but the room stayed still and lifeless. She let out a long breath and leaned her forehead against the doorframe.

  "Of course," she muttered to herself. "Still passed out from last night."

  Her sister was always like this after drinking, which was more often than not. Ellowyn had learned not to expect much.

  She turned away from the door, growling. Heading to the couch—the only space in the house that felt remotely hers—she grabbed her jacket from the backrest and shrugged it on. Her sneakers waited at the foot of the couch, scuffed and loose from too much wear. She pulled them on quickly, stuffing her laces inside, and made her way to the door.

  With a creak and a click, the door swung open, letting in the cold air of another empty day. She stepped outside, the brisk wind biting at her cheeks as she shoved her hands deep into her pockets.

  The town was eerily quiet, as it always seemed to be. Ellowyn trudged along the cracked and uneven sidewalk, her worn sneakers scuffing against the concrete. Junk-filled yards lined the streets, their broken bicycles and rusted car parts a grim testament to Jaywick's neglect. The narrow alleys, cluttered with discarded furniture and overgrown weeds, stretched like labyrinths between the rows of tired houses.

  Turning the corner, she headed toward the small corner shop, her stomach grumbling loudly in protest. If luck was on her side today, Ms. Carson would be working. The kind old woman had been a fixture in Ellowyn's life for as long as she could remember, always slipping her a sandwich and soda when she stopped by.

  Ellowyn smirked at the thought—she didn't mind the pity if it meant free food. But if Mr. Shile, the shop's grumpy owner, was behind the counter, it would be another story entirely. She'd have to resort to quick hands and quicker feet, pocketing whatever she could before bolting out the door.

  As she reached the entrance, she hesitated, crossing her fingers and muttering under her breath. Please be Ms. Carson. Please be Ms. Carson.

  The door creaked open, the little bell overhead jingling in greeting. Ellowyn peeked inside and let out a sigh of relief. There she was—Ms. Carson, with her fluffy cloud of white hair, perched behind the counter, her nose buried in a newspaper.

  Ms. Carson's round glasses slipped slightly down her nose as she peered over the edge of the paper. A smile spread across her face when she saw Ellowyn.

  "Oh! Ellie, dear!" she squeaked in her high-pitched voice. "How are you, love?"

  Ellowyn shuffled to the counter, leaning her elbows on it and resting her chin in her hands.

  "Hungry," she said simply, her stormy gray-green eyes meeting Ms. Carson's warm gaze.

  Ms. Carson clucked her tongue softly and folded up her newspaper, shuffling to the back of the shop with the slow, deliberate movements of someone her age. As always, she returned with a turkey sandwich wrapped in plastic and a cold bottle of Coke. She set them in front of Ellowyn with a smile.

  "Here you are, love," she said kindly.

  Ellowyn grabbed the sandwich, unwrapping it eagerly.

  "Thank you," she said, her voice muffled by the first bite of bread and turkey. "Anything interesting in the news today?"

  Ms. Carson huffed as she lowered herself back into her chair behind the counter, picking up her paper again.

  "Nah," she replied, squinting at the print. "Nobody new has died, so it's all the same nonsense."

  Ellowyn chuckled softly, the sound light despite the weight of her day. She took a sip of Coke and let her shoulders relax. "Ah. Shame." She snickered.

  Ellowyn and Ms. Carson chatted briefly, the older woman's warmth a small but familiar comfort in the chilly morning. After a quick goodbye, Ellowyn pushed open the shop's door and stepped back out into the gray, wind-bitten streets of Jaywick.

  Her belly was no longer empty, and for now, that was enough. She glanced up at the clouds overhead, her stormy gray-green eyes narrowing slightly as the wind tugged at her wavy, raven-black hair. Brushing it out of her face, she set off down the street, her scuffed sneakers kicking up pebbles as she went.

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  Her destination was the library—the one place in town that didn't feel suffocating. It was quiet, warm, and smelled of old paper and ink. To Ellowyn, it was a sanctuary. "The only good thing in this town," she muttered to herself, her lips quirking into a faint smirk.

  The wind whistled softly as she walked, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea. Ellowyn cut a striking, if forlorn, figure: a thin, sullen child with lanky arms and unkempt hair that curled at the ends, her red jacket streaked with dirt and her jeans patched in too many places. She was the picture of neglect, her appearance shouting what her words rarely did—she was a child without care or love.

  But Ellowyn didn't care, not really. She never had. What was the point? Getting upset wouldn't bring her new clothes, or parents who stuck around, or a home that didn't feel like it might fall apart in a storm. The world didn't work like that.

  She stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket and walked a little faster, her mind already drifting to the books she might find.

  Ellowyn's older sister, Allison, had been her unofficial guardian for as long as she could remember. At twenty-four and unemployed, Allison spent more time sleeping off hangovers or partying than she did caring for her little sister.

  But Ellowyn was used to it. She'd been building herself from scratch for years, piecing together her survival with nothing but her wits and her resilience. And she was okay with that.

  Always have been, she thought with a shrug, her gray-green eyes scanning the horizon as the library's silhouette came into view.

  To Ellowyn, there was no point in yearning for things that would never come. As long as she had her books, her wits, and the faint hope of something better waiting in the future, she could keep moving forward.

  The library stood like everything else in Jaywick: small, shabby, and in desperate need of repair. Its roof sagged in places, and patches of peeling paint exposed the weathered wood beneath. Yet, despite its worn exterior, this place was a haven for Ellowyn. The library didn't judge, didn't demand anything from her—it simply existed, waiting for her to return.

  As she stepped inside, the warm, slightly stale air greeted her like an old friend. The door creaked shut behind her, muffling the outside world's gray chill. The place was quiet, save for the faint rustle of a newspaper. A single patron, an elderly man, sat tucked away in one of the few worn armchairs, his wire-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he read.

  Ellowyn ignored him, her attention drawn immediately to the aisles of books. They weren't numerous or particularly well-organized, but they were enough. The spines stood proudly, their colors faded but inviting. As she wandered through the cramped rows, her fingers brushed lightly against the books' surfaces, tracing their titles and ridges.

  Stopping in the middle of an aisle, she closed her eyes, letting her feet guide her forward. When she felt the urge to stop, her fingers landed on a spine without hesitation. Pulling the book free, she opened her eyes to see the title:

  "The Tales of Minstie: The Ghost Mouse of London Tower."

  A small smile tugged at her lips. The book's cover was faded, the illustration of a plucky little ghost mouse barely visible anymore. Flipping through the pages, she skimmed a few paragraphs and decided this would be her escape for the day.

  She turned and made her way to the checkout desk. The librarian, a middle-aged woman with short, graying hair and a distracted air, glanced up from a ledger.

  Ellowyn slid her library card across the counter without a word.

  The librarian stamped the checkout slip, barely looking at her as she handed the card and book back.

  "Due in two weeks," she said flatly.

  Ellowyn nodded and took the book, not bothering with pleasantries. She had been coming here for years but had never learned the librarian's name. It didn't matter—this wasn't a place for friendships. It was a place for books.

  Stepping back outside, Ellowyn tucked the book under her arm. The wind had picked up, tousling her hair as she headed toward her usual spot to read. The graveyard.

  The graveyard sat perched on the highest hill in Jaywick, its weathered stones standing sentinel over the quiet town below. It was a lonely place, dotted with crooked headstones, cracked mausoleums, and a few gnarled trees that had long since stopped bearing leaves. Here rested the bones of the town's founders, their names and deeds etched in crumbling stone, alongside a scattering of newer graves—forgotten souls buried without much ceremony.

  Ellowyn liked it here.

  There was something peaceful about the stillness, the way the world seemed to hush as she stepped between the rows of gravestones. She didn't find the graveyard creepy or morbid like most people her age would. To her, it felt welcoming, almost alive in its own quiet way.

  She stopped at her favorite spot, a headstone worn smooth by time, its inscription almost unreadable. Sitting cross-legged on the grass beside it, she set her book on her lap and glanced out at the view. From here, the entire town sprawled below—shabby rooftops, narrow streets, and beyond them, the glittering expanse of the sea. The salty breeze carried with it the faint cries of seagulls, and for a moment, everything felt... still.

  Ellowyn's gaze wandered back to the headstone beside her, her fingers absently tracing its surface. She didn't know who was buried here, but she liked to imagine it had been someone like her. Maybe they had felt lost in life too.

  She couldn't explain why she felt so at ease among the dead. Maybe it was because they were quiet, unlike the chaotic world of the living. Or maybe it was the idea that these graves weren't endings, but doorways—places to pause before continuing to some great unknown.

  To her, death wasn't a thing to be feared. It was just existence taking a new shape.

  Ellowyn leaned back, the book still unopened in her lap, and closed her eyes for a moment.

  An hour must have slipped away unnoticed before the dimming light made it too dark for Ellowyn to continue reading. In her book, the ghost mouse was still darting around the tombstones, hunting for clues and fending off demons. With a sigh, she closed the book and rose to her feet, stretching slightly. She lingered for a moment, gazing around the graveyard as the gentle chirping of crickets filled the silence.

  “Goodnight,” she whispered softly to the resting souls, turning to make her way down the hill.

  But just as she reached the graveyard’s entrance, a faint yet unmistakable whisper drifted through the air: “Goodnight.”

  Ellowyn froze, her heart skipping a beat. She spun around, scanning the shadowy rocks and tufts of grass for any sign of someone—or something. To her surprise, a pale, flickering light caught her eye near a gravestone to her left. The bluish glow blinked in and out, like a ghostly strobe dancing just above the ground.

  Her breath hitched, but curiosity overpowered her unease. Cautiously, she shuffled toward the gravestone, peering behind it with quickened steps.

  There was nothing there.

  She blinked, staring at the empty patch of grass. Her mind scrambled for an explanation, but fatigue soon won out. Shaking her head, she whispered a quiet laugh to herself, chalking it up to tired eyes and an overactive imagination. With one last glance at the graveyard, she turned and headed home, the ghostly light fading into the night behind her.