Chapter 5
SALEM
I wake up sticky.
Not lip-gloss sticky. Not fell-asleep-in-a-face-mask sticky.
This-is-wrong-fabric-dragging-where-it-shouldn’t-be sticky. A tacky sheen across my stomach where Finn’s hoodie clings like it figured out possessiveness overnight. When I sit up, something soft snags in my hair.
A feather. Black and bent.
“Absolutely not,” I tell the ceiling, because the universe loves feedback.
The window I locked last night is cracked. The curtain lifts and falls like a slow lung. Cedar and cool morning air thread the room faint as a memory, faint enough I could pretend I’m imagining it, if the feather hadn’t just assaulted me.
I peel the hoodie away, grimacing at the damp patch smeared across the fabric. It’s… gross. Weird. Unexplainable. My brain jumps to the only excuse it always has.
Sleepwalking.
Again.
Like when I was a kid and stress made me wander, half-dreaming, making messes I couldn’t remember. I thought I’d grown out of it, but lately? Between the nightmares and the pressure, it wouldn’t surprise me if my subconscious decided to start redecorating my nights again.
I shove the thought down, gagging a little as I bunch the hoodie into the laundry basket. Out of sight, out of mind.
Shower. Now.
I twist the faucet to scalding and scrub until the stickiness turns into cloudy ribbons slipping down the drain.
The scent of my body wash stays stubborn in the air—floral and musk.
When the mirror finally demists, a damp, smudged mess stares back at me from the mirror, mascara halfway down my face like it’s plotting revenge.
My phone buzzing on the counter yanks my focus.
Miles
ALIVE CHECK??
If you don’t text me back I’ll go total suburban mom on you and call every mother fucker I know until I know ur ass is alive
Me
lol, I’m alive. showering. calm down
Miles
Calm?? Me??? Be serious
Me
ur right, calm is like a foreign language to you
Miles
Rude. Also—Nathan? He’s still ignoring me. Tell me you’ve heard from him
Me
no. nothing. radio silence
I stare at my thread with Nathan. Last message from me: Seriously? From last night. Fine. One more ping into the void.
Me
NATHAN?? Hello? We’re all freaking out at this point.
No read receipt. Of course.
Clothes, hair, armor-level mascara. I glance around the apartment knowing I should spend the morning cleaning before class, but if I stay here, I’ll end up sketching his mouth and talking to birds. Which, honestly, has already happened, but we can try to pretend I’m normal for one morning.
So, instead, I pull my phone back out and shoot off a text to Miles.
Me
Coffee before class? My treat.
Miles
Bet. Be there in 20.
And just so you know, I’m ordering the biggest coffee they sell. I deserve it after last night.
Me
Oh? What exactly happened last night?
MIiles
Girl, please. Let me get caffeine in me first, then you’re getting the unabridged director’s cut.
Me
You better. I want all the details.
Miles
Babe, the details are the story
I grab my bag, then pause at the mirror for one last check.
My hair is still damp from the shower, parted down the middle and blunt around my jaw, the kind of sleek bob that looks styled even when all I did was run my fingers through it.
The black long-sleeve crop clings close, the graphic faded enough to look like I stole it from a thrift bin.
Plaid skirt, short enough that my mother would faint.
Sheer tights already threatening to run.
Knee-high socks and my platform boots finish the look, heavy enough to double as weapons if needed.
It’s half-schoolgirl, half-problem.
Exactly the vibe.
I triple-check the window lock out of spite and shove Finn’s hoodie deeper into the laundry basket like it might crawl back out if I don’t bury it.
The hallway still smells faintly of someone’s burnt toast, but the second I step outside the October air smacks me clean across the face.
It’s crisp, sharp, threaded with that autumn sweetness that makes the veil feel thinner.
Which is exactly why I’m off to meet Miles for some much-needed caffeine. If I can drown the weird in espresso and gossip, maybe I’ll stop thinking about how easily the air feels like it could split open.
Perch smells like cinnamon and burnt espresso. Miles already has the corner table, two mugs waiting like he’s auditioning for the role of my life coach.
“You’re late,” he says the second I step up. “Of all the things you’ve collected from that god awful thrift store you’re telling me they didn’t have any vintage wall clocks?”
I roll my eyes, dropping into the seat across from him. “Wow, okay. Didn’t know when I offered to buy coffee I was signing up for a lecture,”
He gives me a slow once-over and smirks. “Oh please. At least you look cute while committing crimes against punctuality. Skirt, boots—very ‘please ruin me’ chic.”
“Compliment received,” I say dryly, stealing his muffin top.
“Anyway,” he says, leaning in like he’s about to break national news, “Jamie. We had the best time. Like, stupid good. We laughed, we did all the Halloween things, and we may have even made out behind?—
“So you hooked up,” I say with a smirk.
He grins like a cat with cream. “We totally hooked up . And it wasn’t even like, awkward! It was actually… really good. He’s… I don’t know. I’m kinda into him.”
“Holy shit,” I say, mock-gasping. “Miles ‘dating one person is so overrated,’ Bennett actually into someone?”
“Don’t make it weird.” He kicks me under the table, but he’s smiling too wide to mean it.
We laugh for a while, gossiping and poking fun at each other, until his grin softens and he studies me over the rim of his cup. “But seriously… how are you? You’ve seemed… off. And I know it’s almost a year since, you know.”
My stomach plummets, but I force a casual shrug, tearing my muffin into neat little pieces. Since that night . The words clang in my skull like bells I’ve been trying not to hear.
“I’m fine,” I say, too fast. Then softer, “Really. Promise.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go, reaching across to steal one of my muffin pieces in a truce.
“Fine,” he says, “but if you spiral, just know, for you, I’m not above showing up outside your building with alcohol and a boombox.”
“God, no,” I groan.
He grins. Then his eyes widen as he checks his phone. “Shit. We’re gonna be late.”
We both jump up, scrambling for our bags. He tosses our trash with the efficiency of a man who’s practiced late exits a thousand times for someone who preached “punctuality.” I follow him out the door, the crisp cool fall air slapping us awake as we sprint toward campus.
The studio is bright the way morgues are bright—white walls, high windows, sound softened by paper and paint water. I tape down a sheet and tell my hand to mind its business. It obeys for three minutes. Then the line darkens. A head cocks. A long beak. Eyes like beads that know secrets.
A crow again. The same fucking crow. The one I keep pretending I don’t see in my periphery everywhere I go.
“Fixation,” my professor says behind me as he passes by. “Interesting repetition of motif.”
“Seasonal,” I say, smudging until the head blurs into a shadow that looks like trees.
He hums academically and moves on.
Hours slide. Evening bruises the windows. We clean up, the scrape of stools and brushes echoing in the emptying studio. Miles’ phone buzzes, and he groans.
“I’ve gotta head into work. Someone bailed, and apparently I’m the chosen one.” He slings his bag over his shoulder, then fixes me with a look. “Go straight home, okay?”
“I was actually thinking I’d swing by Nathan’s?—”
“Nope,” he cuts me off, wagging a finger. “Don’t. I’ll stop by. His place is on the way to the restaurant anyway.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Girl you don’t have to thank me,” He leans in and air-kisses my cheek. “Just text me when you’re home so I know you made it, and pray for me, it’s going to be a busy shift.”
“I promise,” I add, feeling thankful for him.
He grins, already tapping out a message as he heads for the door. The hall empties behind him, leaving only the creak of the building’s old bones and me, standing still long enough for whatever in me likes to make bad choices to stretch, sigh, and start pointing at exits.
The usual walk home feels too wide open, too many streetlights for my thoughts to slip out and mug me. The other way, the one that takes me behind the old mill, across the ditch, through the farm, feels more peaceful, and quicker.
Shortcut, then. Just to shave a corner off the evening. Because I don’t want to think about how thin the air feels tonight, or how tomorrow looms like a bruise I can’t stop poking. It’s late, I’m tired, and I just want to get home, lock the door, and ignore all of it.
The farm sits quiet at the edge of town, rows stretching into the dark like they’ve got no end. No lights besides the moon. No noise. Just the wind shifting through dry stalks and the faint smell of dirt gone cold for the season.
I reach the fence along the property and swing a leg over.
The rows close in quick—tall, packed tight, brushing my shoulders when the wind shifts.
The dirt path is hard under my boots, worn down from tractors and work boots.
I pull my jacket tighter to block the chill, but the wind still sneaks in, carrying the smell of damp hay, turned-up earth, and that sharp tang of fallen leaves starting to rot.
I keep walking, because I’m too tired to deal with the whole veil is thinning thing or the fact that tomorrow’s sitting in my chest like a stone.
I just want to get home and shut it all out.
The light’s fading fast, and the wind whistles through the rows, making everything creak and shift. Then I hear it—footsteps behind me.
Heavy. Even. Too steady to be an accident.
And then a breath. Slow, deep.
Not rushed. Not even trying to hide.