I always wake before the alarm. It's not habit—it's instinct. A kind of alertness that's been drilled into me since I was old enough to understand danger could come quietly. And fast.
We've been in this town for nearly two years. Which means it's almost time to leave.
That's how it's always been. Never stay too long. Never get too close. Two years, maximum, and we're gone. My grandmother's rule. One she's never broken. It's her way of keeping me safe—by never letting me live.
I make coffee in the cramped kitchen while she sorts through a drawer stuffed with old mail and neatly labeled envelopes. Her silver hair is tied up, face sharp with focus. I don't have to ask what she's doing. She's planning our next move.
I glance at the calendar on the wall. The date's circled. Not my birthday. Just a mark that means: Pack up. Burn anything risky. Don't leave a trail.
The house smells like rosemary and ash, like something half-forgotten. Our rituals cling to the walls. Burned herbs. Salt lines. Protective wards inked into the wooden beams. Most people wouldn't notice—but we're not most people. This place has held us like a breath waiting to exhale. And now, it's time to let go again.
I sip my coffee, staring out the window, watching this little town slowly wake. It's not much—just a stretch of small shops, a diner, a few neighborhoods tucked under the hills. But I like it here. I like the quiet. I like the café. I like the routine.
I like pretending I'm normal.
At the café, everything is warm and familiar. The scent of cinnamon rolls and burnt espresso, the hum of the old fan above the register, the soft thump of Arlo's boots in the back as he moves trays around. Liv teases me the second I walk in, calling me "ghost girl" because I don't post on social media or go out after shifts. Micah gives me a shy smile over his notebook but doesn't say much. He never does.
He's the kind of quiet that fills a room rather than disappears in it. Sometimes, I wonder if he senses something strange in me—some sliver of truth buried too close to the surface. But he never asks. And I never offer.
We don't talk about family. They don't ask, and I don't offer.
No one knows who I really am. Not even close.
They don't know I'm the daughter of a dead witch and a werewolf spy. That my blood is a secret war. That I was born from something forbidden—something the Blackfang Pack swore to wipe out.
They killed my mother. And my father too, when he tried to protect her. He had been one of them—sent to spy, to destroy. But he fell in love instead. And when the truth came out, they slaughtered both of them. My mother's coven. Everyone.
Except me.
I was hidden. Kept secret. Raised in the dark.
My grandmother hasn't smiled in years. Not really. She carries her grief like a blade, and every time she speaks of the pack, it's with venom. Her hate is quiet, but it runs deep. She wants revenge. She always has.
But I don't.
I don't want blood. I don't want war. I just want peace. A life. Something small and steady. I want to live like a human. Go home after work. Watch the rain. Fall in love one day, maybe. Not with a wolf. Not with anyone who might sense what I am.
I want to stop running.
But we always run.
That night, I help her fold laundry in silence. She doesn't ask how my day was. She doesn't care about cinnamon rolls or Micah's bad poetry or the way Liv dragged me into a flour fight and laughed until she choked.
She only cares about one thing.
"They're getting bolder," she says quietly. "The pack. I heard about a girl found dead up north. Same mark."
I pause with a shirt half-folded in my hands. "Was she—?"
"They thought she might be one of us. Even if she wasn't, it doesn't matter. They don't take chances. You're next if they ever find you."
Her voice is flat. Not cruel. Just… resolved.
I want to tell her she's wrong. That maybe the pack isn't hunting like before. That maybe we've hidden well enough to disappear for good. But I can't. Because deep down, I know she's right. The closer I get to the illusion of normal, the tighter the leash of fear pulls around my throat.
I nod, like I always do. Because I can't say what I'm thinking.
That I'm tired. That I'm lonely. That maybe I don't want to disappear again.
But I keep folding. And the silence between us stretches, thick with things we'll never say.
Later, while brushing my hair, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face looks calm. Too calm. I've mastered the art of stillness—of tucking the truth into quiet corners where even I can't feel it most days. But tonight, something unsettles me. I look into my own eyes and wonder who I'd be if I wasn't always pretending to be someone else.
The moon is high when I finally crawl into bed. I watch the ceiling, listening to the wind in the trees. I think about the people I'll leave behind. The smile on Liv's face. The flour in Arlo's beard. The quiet way Micah always looks at me like I'm a poem he's afraid to read out loud.
This town isn't perfect. But it's mine—for now. And I can feel the weight of its ending pressing down like a shadow I can't outrun. I think about the girl I could've become here if things were different. If I were different.
This life isn't real.
But for a little while… it was mine.
And soon, I'll have to let it go.