1. Chapter One #3
The kettle whistles; I cringe and rush to pour the boiling water over the infuser. Watching the leaves unfurl is fascinating, as they release tendrils of amber into the clear liquid. Steam rises, coating my skin in its humid warmth, the scent of soil after rain temporarily calming my mind.
I carry the mug to the small table by the window, where a velvet-lined box waits. This is my true extravagance, the reason I work the bland job with its steady paycheck. Inside the box, nestled in individual compartments, my collection gleams in the low light.
Crystals. Not the healing kind that wellness influencers peddle, promising to balance chakras or attract love or whatever. Mine serve no purpose beyond their existence. They are perfect in their uselessness. Wanting nothing, demanding nothing, simply being.
The cool touch of an obsidian sphere greets my fingers as I grasp it and roll it between my palms. Its surface is smooth, creating an infinite reflection of my face in a distorted miniature.
Next to it, a chunk of raw amethyst waits, its purple depths containing worlds I can only imagine exist. A piece of labradorite that shifts from blue to green depending on how the light catches it.
Tiger’s eye. Rose quartz. Selenite. And one of my favorites, moss agate.
They offer a strange comfort, these stone fragments. They exist on a timescale that makes human life seem inconsequential. Long after I’m gone, they’ll remain. Unchanged and indifferent.
There’s peace in that thought.
I wish I could purchase the larger pieces.
Ones that require both hands to hold or both arms to lift.
But not only are those far out of my budget, they’re too much to take with me each time I decide to move.
It’s the same reason I keep an e-reader instead of basking in the crisp scent of unopened books, as much as I want to.
But libraries exist and are enough to satiate that need. For now.
The next hour is spent with my collection, examining each piece, sometimes holding them to the light, other times simply letting them rest in my palm as I click to the next page of my current fantasy book.
The ability to escape into other worlds brings a calm that nothing else in my life manages to achieve—not quite happiness, but a stillness, a temporary cessation of the constant noise in my head speaking of things I do not wish to hear.
Telling me I don’t belong and to just kill myself already.
Well, I tried and failed. I’ve no desire to be sent to the psych ward again when my next attempt ultimately doesn’t work.
When I finally set my book down and return the crystals to their temporary home, the clock reads nine. Still early, but bone-deep fatigue pulls at me, a weight that’s as familiar as breathing. Me and exhaustion have a love-hate relationship.
I love to be tired enough that sleep easily takes me away for hours, but I hate how useless it makes me feel. What kind of human spends all their free time in bed, with their mind consumed by a book, when sleep isn’t an option?
I’m not sure why I care. It’s better than listening to the thoughts that beckon me from this life with sweet-sounding promises.
Sighing, I swallow my cold tea and prepare for bed with mechanical movements.
The bathroom mirror reflects a face I recognize but don’t connect with—pale skin, gray eyes that appear more empty than their apartment, black hair that hasn’t been cut in years and requires minimal maintenance.
At least, that’s what I tell myself so I don’t feel shitty about not having an entire hair routine like the girls I see on my apps.
Twenty-seven years old, and I look both younger and older at once, as if time can’t decide what category I fit in.
I half-heartedly brush my teeth and splash water on my face, if only to avoid looking at the scars that mark my body like a road map of past failures.
Vertical lines across my wrists where I tried and failed.
Horizontal lines along my thighs where I succeeded in a different kind of release.
Discolored marks sparkle like constellations, scattered across my ribs where burns sunk into the sensitive skin.
Each one a moment when the pressure became too much and the only way to relieve the urgency inside was to let something out.
When I gave in to the constant whispers that I would be better off dead—that everyone in this world would be better off without me.
I slip on a t-shirt so oversized it drapes like a dress before flipping off the only light outside the bathroom. The thin sheets are cold when I slide between them, and I curl into myself for warmth. Outside, snow falls again, its assault silent and relentless as it drifts in slow motion.
Sleep beckons, and I know what waits for me there.
I should resist. Force myself to stay awake, to avoid whatever strange connection has formed between my dreams and the flowers that appear at their abrupt end.
Instead, I surrender, permitting my eyes to close.
As consciousness slips away, I think I hear it—a whisper. So faint.
Maven.
My name, spoken like a prayer. A promise.
And then darkness, complete and consuming, pulls me down into dreams where someone—something—is waiting for me. Always waiting.