Our kitchen smells like money. Not in the tacky way—no gold taps or croissants flown in from Paris—but in the kind of subtle, smug way that says we don't do discount. Citrus candles, real ones, not the "lemon-ish" ones from the corner shop. Coffee brewed in a machine so sleek it probably has a LinkedIn profile. The chairs even creak like they have trust funds.

  Paige is twirling again. Her floaty skirt swirls like it's paid to flirt with the breeze from the open window, her blond hair bouncing like it's trying to win an award. She's got that 'Instagram-perfect, off to Europe' glow, while I've got 'staying behind for summer school because I flunked maths' energy. One sock, wet hair, and an oversized t-shirt that might technically be Dad's. Or maybe it was Dad's. If I ever cared enough to ask, I'd probably get a lecture on boundaries.

  "You could at least brush your hair," Paige says cheerfully, balancing on one foot like the floor offends her.

  "I like the chaos look," I say. "It reflects my inner turmoil."

  Mom laughs softly from the stove. She's making scrambled eggs the way she always does when she's nervous—methodically, like the fate of the world depends on the fluffiness. She looks like sunshine trapped in a person. Floral apron, freckles, that tired warmth behind her eyes that says I've raised two teenage girls and I still believe in kindness.

  She slides a plate toward me. Eggs, toast, a perfectly peeled orange. Love disguised as breakfast.

  "You'll need energy," she says. "Summer school starts Monday."

  "I was hoping it got cancelled due to lack of enthusiasm," I mutter.

  Paige hops up onto the counter like she's starring in a teen drama. "Come on, Laney. We're not leaving forever. It's just a birthday trip. You'll be fine."

  I shrug. "Totally. Me, Mrs. Moyer, and the depressing silence of a house without judgment for three whole weeks. Sounds like paradise."

  Mrs. Moyer, our neighbour, is about seventy percent eyebrows and thirty percent conspiracy theories. She's agreed to check in while my family's off to celebrate Paige turning eighteen with a grand tour of Europe. I flunked my final maths exam, so instead of sipping lemonade by a beach in Nice, I'll be learning algebra with kids who eat glue.

  Dad enters like a storm in a suit. He doesn't speak to anyone at first—just glares at his watch like it personally insulted him.

  "You're still not packed," he says, scanning Paige's suitcase like it's a legal document. "We have an itinerary, you know."

  "She's almost ready," Mom says, smoothing over the tension like she always does. "Laney helped her pick outfits."

  I raise an eyebrow. That's a lie, but a kind one, and I'll take it.

  Dad glances at me like I'm a mildly offensive painting on the wall. "You'll be staying here. Mrs. Moyer will check in. And please, Delaney, try not to embarrass us. Again."

  There it is. My warm, fuzzy send-off.

  I offer my best fake smile. "Of course. I'll practice my invisibility skills and only cry where the neighbours can't hear."

  He doesn't respond. He never does. I could light myself on fire in the living room and he'd probably ask me to keep the flames off the carpet.

  Kate texts me just as I'm debating whether I can drown myself in orange juice.

  Kate: Tell me you didn't start packing for hell school yet

  Me: I did. Emotionally.

  Kate: I'll bring snacks after. We can suffer together. You bring books, I'll bring sugar.

  Kate is the only reason school isn't a complete horror film. She reads nothing but romance novels with boys who smoulder, fated mates and stolen kisses in the rain. I read comics about guys in spandex with superpowers so we meet in the middle, which is usually in bookstore with bag full of snacks.

  "Is that Kate?" Paige asks, still somehow twirling. "Tell her to stop being in love with fictional boys."

  "Says the girl who cried when the horse died in the Never-ending Story."

  "I was twelve," Paige says, horrified.

  "You were sixteen," I correct, grinning.

  She throws a grape at me. It bounces off my forehead like a failed truce.

  We don't do big family hugs in this house. We do casual shoulder taps and the occasional forehead kiss from Mom if she's feeling particularly emotional. Which, today, she is.

  Because they're leaving. And I'm not.

  Again, not bitter. Just dramatically disappointed.

  Paige's suitcase finally closes with the force of three people and a prayer. She perches on top like it's a throne, scrolling through travel blogs and humming something that sounds aggressively cheerful. Mom's going through a checklist while Dad barks into his phone about missed connections and deadlines like we're all co-workers he hates.

  I lean against the bannister, watching the scene like I'm in a play that forgot to give me lines.

  "You sure you'll be okay?" Mom asks, her hand warm on my arm.

  "Mom. I'm fifteen, not five."

  "That's not a no."

  "I'll be fine," I say. "I've got Kate. I've got Mrs. Moyer and I've got absolutely no chance of burning this house down, statistically speaking."

  "She's already threatened the ficus," Paige adds helpfully. "Twice."

  "I promised not to waterboard it again," I say. "It's called character growth."

  That earns me a full laugh from Mom and a head shake from Paige, who mutters something about "future therapy bills" under her breath.

  Then we spot her. Mrs. Moyer. She's standing at her window like a less-fun Hitchcock character, peering at our house like she expects us to launch nuclear codes instead of a family holiday.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I wave.

  She doesn't wave back.

  "She's definitely got a telescope," I say. "And at least three secret identities."

  "Don't be rude," Mom says, though she's smiling.

  "I'm not! I love her. She keeps the mystery alive. Every neighbourhood needs a Mrs. Moyer. It's either that or crime."

  "She's going to be checking in on you every couple of days," Mom reminds me.

  "Brilliant," I say. "I'll make sure to keep the cult rituals after 5pm."

  Dad walks past again, still not looking at me. I wonder if he's even registered I'm not coming with them. Or maybe he has, and it's the one good thing in his week.

  I stopped trying to win his approval around the same time I realised you can't change a weather system with a flashlight. He's not cruel. Just cold. Distant. Like a dad from a movie who forgets the main character's birthday but remembers to donate to a golf tournament.

  "He's just... under a lot of pressure," Mom says gently when we're alone in the hallway. Again. Like pressure turns you into someone who forgets their daughter exists.

  "It's fine," I say. "He doesn't like me. I've made peace with it."

  "He loves you," she says quickly.

  "Sure," I say. "In the same way I love vegetables. From a distance."

  Her face falls a little, but she doesn't argue. She just pulls me into a hug that smells like her perfume—warm and clean and safe.

  Paige appears beside us, dramatically sighing as she adjusts her sunglasses on her head like she's a movie star headed to Cannes.

  "Okay," she says. "Let's go before I start crying and ruin my mascara."

  She hugs me tighter than I expect. Her head rests on my shoulder like it always does when she doesn't have words. We don't do emotional speeches. Just quiet moments with too-long hugs and stupid jokes that mean "I love you."

  "I'll text you every day," she whispers.

  "Don't," I say. "Live your perfect life and pretend I don't exist."

  She snorts. "That's the plan."

  I smile. "Happy early birthday, sis." I lean back on the banister casually. "Tell me happy birthday when you see me next because then it will actually count!" She gives me her signature grin and pulls the suitcase up by the handle.

  The front door slams. Dad's already in the car, honking. Because of course he is. I lean forward just to catch a court nod before he eyes his watch again. "Tight schedule?" I ask nobody in particular.

  "Long way to go." Mom responds looking at the car before turning back to me. Her eyes turn somber and she pulls me into tight hug. "You will be okay, darling. Just ... learn a lot, yeah?"

  "Oh yeah, differentials will never see me coming." I retort but my hands are already tightening around her back.

  She quickly kisses my forehead. Paige blows me a kiss. And then they're gone. The car disappears behind the row of houses and I shut the front door with a silent thud.

  I flop onto the sofa and close my eyes. The silence is sharp.

  I have been home alone before but this time, somehow, it feels extra quiet, like when music cuts out at a party and you realize you were dancing off-beat the whole time.

  Kate texts.

  Kate: Did they leave?

  Me: Yup. It's just me and Mrs. Moyer now. The sitcom nobody asked for.

  Kate: I'd watch it. Especially if there are explosions.

  Me: If I'm left alone long enough, there might be.

  And just like that, I don't feel so alone.

  It's Sunday afternoon when I finally drag myself out of bed, groaning as sunlight tries to sneak through the cracks in the curtains. It's one of those mornings where even the promise of coffee can't convince me to move any faster. After twenty minutes of self-persuasion to just get up and not ruin the rest of my free day, I shuffle toward the window. I yank the sage-green curtains aside and—bam—sunlight hits me like a freight train. I squint, letting it flood the room. We rarely get this much blue sky this early in summer. Most days, it's gray and dreary—perfect weather for binge-watching everything I've already seen a hundred times.

  Leaning out the window, I scan the quiet street. Mrs. Moyer, dressed in her signature ruby-red coat, is walking her beloved white poodle. For a woman in her sixties, she looks absolutely stunning, with dirty-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, a few stray strands framing her rectangular face. Honestly, she hasn't aged a day since her late forties, when I first met her.

  I stay there for a bit, letting the sun rise higher in the sky and warm my still-sleepy bones. I'm not about to waste this rare sunny Sunday inside. The TV and laptop are both yawns waiting to happen, and I can't think of a single thing I actually want to do. So, I decide to visit one of my favorite places—the bookstore.

  It's my sanctuary. A place where I can escape from the too-quiet neighborhood, my disgrace of a math grade, and now the quietness of my own house. The bookstore is my refuge, where stories exist in all shapes and forms—fantasy, drama, romance, you name it.

  I hastily pick out an outfit from the pile my wardrobe has become before scanning the street for any unwanted conversations that one of the neighbors would surely bring. I quickly lock the door and start walking towards the town square.

  A few minutes and seven skipped songs later, I feel a prickle at the back of my head. Very common occurrence for me. It's that type of sensation—like being watched. Usually I disregard it, as it tends to happen often, only this time, the feeling spreads through my whole body.

  I turn around.

  Nothing.

  Great. Guess I really do need more sleep.

  But before I can shake it off, I nearly scream when a family rounds the corner at the same time I do. The baby in the stroller joins in with my high-pitched shriek, probably thinking I'm some sort of threat.

  At least I'm not the only one startled.

  I apologize profusely and make my way through the colourless streets till the familiar building comes into view.

  With my heart still pounding in my chest, I slam the door behind me as I enter Cass and Higgins—probably a little harder than necessary. Mr. Higgins, who always looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, pokes his head out from behind a shelf.

  "Really, Delaney? Are you trying to break the hinges again?" he grumbles, though I can see the corner of his lips twitching.

  "Sorry," I mutter, tugging at the hem of my oversized sweater. "Guess I'm a little jumpy today."

  Mr. Higgins grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn't seem to mind me much. After all, he orders new comic books for me every month, even though he swears they're just "pictures with no real knowledge." Grumpy, but with a soft spot for me.

  "I would've climbed through the window if you had one," I shoot back as I wander deeper into the store.

  The floorboards creak under my feet as I rummage through the aisles. I end up curled up in one of the gray armchairs, losing track of time as I devour a romance novel I grabbed from the bargain bin. The cheesy cover caught my eye. Kate would be proud—she's been trying to get me to read something in the romance genre for weeks now. So, I snap a picture of the book and send it to her before settling in.

  Hours pass, and the blue light from the stained-glass windows fades, the afternoon slipping into evening. Mr. Higgins breaks my trance.

  "I'll be closing soon," he calls from somewhere behind a stack of books.

  I glance at the ugly green clock on the wall—way too early for him to be shutting shop. But who am I to question it?

  I grab my comics and the novel, walk over to the counter, and slap my books down.

  "I'll have the next batch ready in six days," he says, bagging my stuff.

  "Thanks, Mr. Higgins! I'll see you next week!" I reply, but before I can turn away, he clears his throat.

  "And good luck!" he says. I must give him a weird look, because a few seconds later he adds, "With the summer school?"

  Of course he knows.

  "Who snitched?" I cross my arms, the paper bag crumpling under the pressure.

  The subtle smile vanishes as quickly as it appears. "Mrs. Moyer told me about looking after you while the rest of the household goes on vacation. Paige's birthday, right?"

  I nod curtly, already planning to steal one of the gnomes from my beloved guardian's garden.

  "Good luck," he adds before turning away and disappearing behind one of the many book piles.

  With my bag of books in hand, I walk home, but the sense of unease lingers. What had been following me earlier? I can't shake it.

  Back in my room, I shove the door closed and flop onto the bed. My fingers brush the edge of the paper bag, pulling it close. I'm supposed to study—or, well, that's what my dad would've wanted. After flunking math and being stuck with summer school, I'm sure one more day of pretending I'm not affected by it won't hurt. I quickly open Instagram to check Paige's photos, but she hasn't posted anything yet—not even a story. Weird.

  I open my messages instead to find an unread message from Kate.

  Kate: "Is that a romance book I see? How is the main man? Sexy? Mysterious? Kills a lot of people?"

  Me: "You really should check yourself into a mental institution. Is Ted Bundy your ideal type?"

  Kate: "Funny. Wanna go to the mall tomorrow?"

  Me: "Can't. I'm attending an event at a fine institution tomorrow. They might even name it after me."

  Kate: "Oh right, you have summer school. What're you gonna wear?"

  Why does it matter? It's the same school I've been attending for years, but as I read her question over and over, I feel this sudden urge to actually try.

  From the clutter of my closet, I pull out some old Docs and my favorite black sweater. I throw on a pair of faded jeans before standing in front of the mirror. "I really need to stop eating crisps," I mutter, then chuckle before pulling out my old army coat. I look more like I'm going on a hike than attending summer school, but hey, it'll do.

  I sit back on my bed, wondering what my family is doing in Paris. It's just... odd. They're off having fun, and here I am, preparing for a summer of schoolwork. I'll have to pick something special for Paige when she gets back. A birthday gift. Maybe a bracelet?

  I dig out my school bag from under the bed, throw in some math books, pens, and of course, snacks and water.

  Then my eyes land on the knife, tucked into the back pocket of the bag. The knife my dad gave me that summer when we went camping.

  I grab it, turning it over in my hand.

  "For your camping trip," he'd said, handing it to me with an odd little grin, one that wasn't usually there. Dad doesn't smile much—definitely not for me. But that day, he had.

  Maybe that's why I keep it. It's one of the few things he's ever given me that didn't feel like an obligation.

  I glance at the books sticking out of the torn paper bag. One book in particular catches my eye—the leather-bound one with the strange tree on the cover. Mr. Higgins must've slipped it in when I wasn't paying attention. The cover is worn, the dark leather scratched with age, and intricate veins of silver and copper etched along the spine. A tree is pictured—half of it vibrant with sakura blossoms, the other half withered and cracked. And in the middle, a lone star.

  I reach for it and turn it over a few times. No name. No author. But the strange thing? The book won't open. I tug it, bang it against the table—nothing.

  "If you think I was harsh, wait till I show this to Kate. She'll make sure you open just by glaring at you," I mutter, and shove the damn thing into my backpack along with everything else.

  I'm not sure why I want to show it to Kate, but it seems worth mentioning.

  I pick up the knife and the bag before walking back to the mirror. The short waves frame my colorless face as my eyes drop to my outfit.

  "Summer school, here I come."

  But as I stand there, inspecting myself in the mirror, something sharp hits the back of my head. Not a headache—more like something isn't right. My hand shoots up to massage the spot, the ache spiraling down my spine.

  Panic hits like a freight train. I make my way toward the kitchen—Mom has a stash of painkillers that could probably put a pharmacy out of business. But just as I reach for the door handle, my knees buckle beneath me.

  And then... darkness.

  But there's one thing I can't stop focusing on—the dim light coming from my backpack.