Some things are worth carrying with you.
Some people are worth trusting.
And some secrets are meant to be shared in the dark, with mist curling around your feet and the promise that you don’t have to carry the ghosts alone anymore.
Chapter 17
Bree
The house is silent, but I'm louder now. Inside. Awake in ways I don't know how to hush. I've been packed for an hour, maybe two. Everything I'm taking to the sanctuary fits in one small bag—clothes, the blanket Gray helped me choose, my mother's ring. It's not much, but it feels like everything.
The mist curls around my ankles as I sit on the edge of the bed, restless and waiting. Not anxious. Not afraid. Just... full. Too full to rest, too alert to sleep.
I glance at the blanket one more time where it sits folded on top of my bag. Not longing—just anchoring. A reminder that some things are worth carrying with you.
The mist parts for me as I stand, then curls back around my ankles like it forgot to let go. It tugs gently toward the door, curious but not forceful. I don't follow it on purpose, but I find myself walking barefoot down the hall, through the quiet house, toward the back door.
Dawn hasn't broken yet, but the sky is lighter now. That soft gray that comes before sunrise, when the world feels suspended between night and day.
That's when I see him.
Jace stands in the backyard, facing the old oak tree. His hoodie is zipped tight against the morning chill, and there's something sharp and controlled about the way he moves. He draws his arm back and releases—a knife flying straight and true into the bark.
Another blade follows. Then another.
His movements are practiced, too practiced. Like he's not calming down—he's holding back. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense despite the fluid precision of each throw.
I watch from the doorway, unseen at first. There's something beautiful about the way he moves, but also something desperate. Like he's trying to prove something to himself with every perfect strike.
"You're up early," I say quietly.
He throws another knife without looking at me. "Didn't sleep."
"Did you ever?"
That gets him to glance over. There's a half-smile on his lips, but it doesn't stick. Doesn't reach his eyes.
"You heading out?" he asks, nodding toward my bare feet. "Seems a little early for a nature walk."
"I don't know. Just... walking."
"You always walk toward knives?"
I step closer anyway, drawn by something in his voice. Something that sounds like the edge of breaking.
“This place never felt like home,” I say softly. “Not to me.
He doesn’t look at me, but he stills.
“But you…” I swallow. “You were the first one who made me feel like I belonged."
He goes stiller. Quieter.
“And I think you still don’t believe you do."
His shoulders tense, the knife frozen in his grip. He doesn't deny it, which tells me everything.
"Jace."
