Chapter 7
KRISTA
Hardin doesn’t come inside right away. He lingers at the back fence like it might ask him to stay or shove him off the land entirely.
The light has gone soft, autumn golden, the kind that drips through branches and makes the whole world look like a memory you never actually lived.
Mari’s inside painting with one of Delphina’s handmade brushes, humming something that might be a tune or might just be her own thoughts leaking out into sound.
I’m standing in the patchy grass, fingers still dusted with the scent of crushed sage, and I watch Hardin like I’m waiting for the sky to decide whether or not it wants to rain. He’s too still for comfort. Like a statue someone left in the woods with flannel and a pulse.
“You’ve got that look,” I say softly, not bothering to pretend I don’t notice his mood.
He lifts his gaze to mine without shifting anything else about his posture. “What look?”
“Like something’s coming and you already hate the sound of it.”
He doesn’t answer. Just walks forward a few slow steps, boots silent on the grass, then nods toward the back steps. “We should talk.”
My stomach curls a little, but I don’t let it show. I wipe my hands on my jeans and follow him up, where we both sink onto the top step. The wood is cold and a little damp beneath me, and I realize I forgot to bring a sweater. Doesn’t matter. The air is charged anyway. No use pretending otherwise.
“There’s things you don’t know about this place,” he says, voice low, like the trees might be listening.
“Things like magical tree lines and beasts that slip through cracks in the world?” I ask, tone dry but not mocking. “Because I’m starting to piece that together.”
He cuts his eyes to me, like he’s weighing how much I already understand. “You should be more afraid.”
I shake my head. “I’ve spent years scared of things I couldn’t name. My own husband’s voice in my head. The slow silence of realizing you’re not who you thought you’d be. That’s real fear. This? This is something else. This feels like stepping into a story that was already mine.”
His jaw tightens. “The Hollow isn’t just a story. It’s alive. It remembers. And it protects itself, sometimes violently.”
“And you think it brought me here.”
He nods. Once.
I sit with that for a moment. The idea that something as old and secretive as this town could reach out through time and bloodlines to pluck me and Mari out of our tired, echoing life and drop us right here, in the middle of fog and moss and warnings wrapped in flannel.
“Why?” I ask finally. “Why me?”
Hardin’s brow furrows like he doesn’t like the answer he’s about to give. “Magic knows need. And legacy. And pain. Your great-aunt was a guardian. Her blood carries weight. You walked into this town, and the Hollow opened its gates. That means something.”
“Johanna never told me anything. Just left me this cottage like a footnote in her will. Like I was an afterthought.”
“Maybe she didn’t want you caught in it too soon.”
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “Too soon for what?”
Hardin doesn’t speak. He just reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out something small. A stone, etched with lines that shimmer faintly as he turns it in his palm. He holds it out to me.
I take it carefully, the warmth of it shocking against my skin. It feels like touching a heartbeat.
“What is it?”
“A tether. That stone’s been in your family longer than the Hollow’s council. It anchors you to the wards.”
“So I’m a piece of the puzzle.”
“No. You’re the key.”
That night, after Mari’s asleep and I’ve cleaned the last flecks of paint from her elbows and forehead, I light a candle in the sitting room and pull Johanna’s grimoire from its hiding place behind the bookshelf.
It’s heavy in my lap, the leather cover cool and worn smooth in the places her hands must’ve rested a hundred times.
The silver threadwork along the spine glints when the candle flickers, and the lock—ornate and old—sits in the center like a dare.
I press my fingers to it and whisper her name.
The lock clicks open like it never wanted to stay closed.
Inside, the pages are filled with notes so fine and precise they look printed until I see the small imperfections, the tilt of her letters, the occasional smudge where ink met fingertip.
The language is dense in places, strange in others.
Some of it isn’t in English. Some isn’t in any language I recognize.
But my eyes trace the words, and the words trace me back.
Protection begins with knowing. Warding begins with witnessing. Power begins in the pause between your fear and your breath.
I read until my eyes blur, until the candle gutters and dies on its own.
When I finally close the book, I feel it like a pulse beneath my ribs. Something ancient has woken up, and it’s living in me now.
The next morning, I wake before Mari, which is rare. I wrap myself in a sweater too big for my frame and step outside with a cup of tea. The steam curls in the morning air, sweet with honey and rosemary, and the forest hums low around the cottage like it’s stretching awake.
Delphina is sitting on my porch swing when I round the corner.
“How long have you been there?” I ask, startled but not afraid.
She shrugs. “Long enough to know you opened the book.”
“You knew about it?”
“I know about most things that hum.”
I sit beside her, careful not to spill my tea. “It felt like it was waiting for me.”
“It was.”
We sit in silence for a while. The crows call lazily in the trees. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of damp bark and pine needles.
“There’s a price to being claimed by this place,” Delphina says finally.
“I didn’t ask to be claimed.”
“No one ever does.”
I glance at her. “What happens now?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Now, you learn fast.”