The paper is damp by the time I reach the street.
It sticks to my palm, the ink smudged, Trey’s handwriting bleeding in places. Still, the numbers are clear enough to lead me here. A quiet block, half-asleep in the pre-dawn drizzle. Houses crouch in a row, pale skeletons through the fog. Most are dark. Curtains drawn tight. Doors bolted. But one—this one—breathes with light behind its bones.
The Rosewood.
The sign hangs clear on its post, painted letters legible, swinging with each gust. White clapboard siding stretches tall, Edwardian bones softened by age. Broad porch, railings painted white and steady. A place with history. The kind of house that has heard laughter echo down its hallways. That has carried grief in its walls, too.
It doesn’t look like hell, and that’s enough for me.
I stand across the street, damp hair plastered to my cheeks, cardigan and cotton dress clinging wet against my skin. Myslippers in tatters, squelch with each step. Cold gnaws at my bones, sharp and relentless. My breath fogs in front of me, vanishing into the mist. Every instinct scream that I shouldn’t be here, that Gideon will come storming down the road at any moment and drag me back.
But my fingers tighten on the paper. On Trey’s scrawled promise.
If I can’t trust this… then what’s left?
I can’t knock.
Not yet.
Instead, I crouch low beside the trash bins at the edge of the drive, pulling my knees to my chest. The metal is slick and cold, smelling of rain and rot. The ground is wet, soaking through my already damp cotton dress, but I don’t care.
I press my forehead against my knees, willing myself invisible. My body shivers uncontrollably, teeth clattering so loud I’m sure someone will hear. The drizzle slips down the back of my neck like icy fingers.
Every little sound magnifies—the drip of rain from the gutter, the hiss of a car gliding past on wet asphalt, the rumble of distant thunder. And beneath it all, my own pulse, frantic in my ears.
What if he’s not here?
What if it’s a trick?
What if someone else opens the door?
I clutch the paper tighter, crumpling it against my chest as though ink and rain-stained words could shield me. Trey had written this down for me, like it mattered, like he meant it. And yet doubt chews at me, bite after bite.
He said I needed to get out.
He said this place was safe.
But men say a lot of things.
The sky lightens by degrees. Black fades to bruised violet, then a washed-out grey that turns the mist silver. Windows sweat with condensation. The Rosewood looms softer in this light, less haunted, more lived-in.
A flicker upstairs.
My breath snags.
Curtains glow faint with lamplight. A shadow moves past—broad shoulders, a shape too indistinct to name. I freeze, shrinking further into the shadow of the bin.
Another light follows, this time downstairs, spilling gold across the porch. The contrast nearly undoes me. Warmth there, cold here. Life and laughter behind walls, while I sit shivering, damp and half-broken, on the outside.
I’ve never wanted to step into a place so badly.
And I’ve never been so afraid to.
Gideon’s voice cuts through my chest, sharp as the chill.
You’ll scream, Seraphina. But not loud enough to reach God. Not loud enough for anyone to hear while I remake you.
The memory claws at me, terror seizing my lungs.
