I remember that day like it was yesterday, no matter how hard I try to forget. The screeching tires, the glass shattering, the smell of burning rubber. I remember crawling from the wreckage, my heart pounding, and seeing him-just standing there in the distance, watching. I've told myself a thousand times that it wasn't real, that it was just my mind playing tricks on me. But that cold feeling, the way his eyes seemed to hold mine even from far away-I'll never forget it.
It's been seven years since the accident, and sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, that same cold creeping through me. I hear footsteps in the halls when there's no one else around. I see shadows move when they shouldn't.
I shake it off most days. I have to.
My seventeenth birthday is tomorrow, and I should be excited. But instead, all I feel is uneasy. Maybe it's the weather.
I can't shake the feeling that something is coming. Something I can't stop.
I turn away from the window and head to the kitchen, trying to push the thoughts out of my head. It's just another storm, I tell myself. Just another night.
But as I step into the hallway, I see it-a figure, standing at the far end. Tall, dark, watching me. My heart skips a beat, my breath catching in my throat. For a second, I think it's just a trick of the light, but then he moves. Slowly, deliberately.
I blink, and he's gone.
I stand frozen, my heart racing, staring at the empty hallway. He was there. I know he was. But there's no one here now, just the echo of my footsteps and the pounding of my heart.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to move. It's nothing, just my mind playing tricks again. I've seen things like this before. But this time, it felt different. More real.
I glance back at the hallway one last time before I head to my room, closing the door behind me. As I lay down in bed, I can't help but feel like the storm isn't the only thing coming.
Something-or someone-is watching. And I have no idea who he is.
••••
The next morning is just like every other. I wake up before the sun rises, the quiet of the house pressing down on me. Aunt Tessa is probably still asleep in her room, and I move quickly, not wanting to wake her. Not that it matters. We haven't had a proper conversation in years, and even the sound of my footsteps tends to annoy her. I know what she thinks every time she looks at me. I see it in her eyes: the resentment, the anger. To her, I'm the one who stole her sister away, the one who somehow survived when my parents and siblings didn't.
The small bedroom I sleep in has no windows, just four walls and a ceiling that feels closer every day. It used to be a storage room before Aunt Tessa reluctantly gave it to me after my parents died. I grab my work clothes from the chair by the door and slip into them. Same as always-jeans worn down at the knees, a shirt that's faded from too many washes, and shoes that feel like they'll fall apart at any second. I don't care what I look like. At the restaurant, no one notices. No one ever notices.
The kitchen is as cold and empty as I left it last night. I glance at the fridge out of habit, but I already know what's inside. A few leftovers from Aunt Tessa's dinner, none of which she'll offer to me. She never does. I grab my bag and head out the door before she can wake up, the early morning chill biting at my skin. The walk to the restaurant is short, but it's the only time of the day I feel free. There's no one here to glare at me, no one to remind me of what I've lost.
By the time I arrive at the restaurant, the sun is starting to peek over the horizon, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Mrs. Patel is already inside, moving with the speed and efficiency of someone who's been doing this for decades. She's a small woman, with graying hair pulled into a tight bun and sharp eyes that don't miss a thing. I like her. She doesn't pity me, and she doesn't treat me like I'm invisible. She just expects me to work hard, and that's something I can do.
"Morning, Selene," she calls out from behind the counter, not looking up from the register.
"Morning, Mrs. Patel," I reply, tying my apron around my waist and slipping into the back to start the dishes. The familiar clatter of plates and the hiss of the dishwasher fill the kitchen, and I let myself fall into the rhythm of it. The routine is comforting, even if it's exhausting. At least here, I'm useful. At least here, I can forget about everything else.
The lunch rush comes in waves, with customers filing in and out, their voices blending into a constant hum of conversation. I barely notice them, my hands moving on autopilot as I clear tables and refill drinks. Every now and then, Mrs. Patel catches my eye and nods approvingly. It's the only acknowledgment I need.
By noon, the crowd thins out, and the restaurant settles into its usual midday lull. That's when the doorbell chimes, and I glance up to see Liam walking in, a grin already spreading across his face. He looks the same as always-messy blond hair, a leather jacket he wears no matter the weather, and a lightness about him that I can't help but envy.
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