Page 33 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

The city feels different at dawn. Empty streets stretch out before me, street lights flickering as the sky shifts from black to navy to a pale, sickly gray. My feet carry me forward without direction, each step taking me further from the warmth I let myself believe in.

The mist follows, curling around my ankles like it's trying to slow me down. I ignore it, just like I ignore the ache in my chest that threatens to crack me open.

A thing to be used and discarded.

Gray's words echo in my head, twisting together with every other voice that's ever told me what I'm worth. Jason sneering about what Phil said. My father's cruel whispers. The weight of their judgment presses against my ribs until I can barely breathe.

I clutch my bag closer, the familiar worn strap grounding me as I turn down another empty street. My scrubs shift inside, reminding me that I still have work later. Still have to pretend everything's normal, that I'm not running from the only place that ever felt like...

No. I can't think about that.

The pale morning light catches on something ahead - the iron gates of Oakwood Cemetery.

My feet slow, recognition settling in my bones.

The last time I was here, I was the only one at her funeral.

The priest mumbled something about finding peace, but the wind stole the words before I could hear them.

I just stood there, watching the dirt cover another life no one cared to remember.

Just like me.

The gates are still locked, but there's a gap in the fence that neighborhood kids use to sneak in. I slip through without thinking, the rust rough against my palm. The mist follows, thicker now, almost protective as I wind my way through the weathered headstones.

Mrs. Henderson's grave is easy to find - still fresh, the dirt darker than the surrounding ground. I sink down beside it, my legs folding under me like they can't hold my weight anymore.

"I messed up," I whisper to the silent stone. "I let myself believe... I thought maybe..."

But I can't finish. The words stick in my throat, sharp and jagged. Because how do I explain that I let myself hope? That for a moment, I actually believed I could have something real, something good?

"They've got some real stories about you, Bree," Jason's voice sneers in my memory. "Phil told me all about you."

My fingers dig into the damp earth beside the grave, anchoring me as the first rays of sun spill across the cemetery. The mist curls closer, and for a second I swear it feels warmer, like it's trying to comfort me.

"You would have told me I was being stupid," I say to Mrs. Henderson's headstone, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. "Running away instead of facing them. But you didn't hear what I heard. You didn't see..."

See what? The careful way they watched me? The gifts they gave me, each one chosen to make me feel safe, wanted? The space they built just for me?

No. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back the tears that threaten to fall. Those weren't gifts. They were chains, pretty things meant to keep me docile until they decided what they wanted from me.

The sun climbs higher, warming the cool stone beneath my palm. I should move, find somewhere else to hide until my shift starts. But something keeps me here, rooted to this quiet corner of the cemetery where the only judgment comes from silent granite angels.

A bird calls somewhere nearby, the sound sharp in the morning stillness. The mist shifts restlessly, and I catch a faint glow in my peripheral vision. For a moment, I think it's the daisies I left behind, but when I turn, there's nothing there.

Just shadows and stone and the weight of everything I'm trying to outrun.

I pull my journal from my bag, running my fingers over the worn leather cover. So many secrets hidden in these pages, so many truths I've never been able to say out loud. The guys never asked to read it, never pushed to know what I wrote about in the quiet hours when sleep wouldn't come.

Maybe that should have told me something.

But it doesn't matter now. None of it does. Because in the end, everyone wants something from me. Everyone has a price they think I'm worth.

And I'm done letting people decide my value.

The morning light catches on my mother's ring, still on my finger after all these years. Another woman who ran when staying got too hard. Maybe that's my inheritance - the need to disappear before anyone can see how broken I really am.

A siren wails in the distance, reminding me that the world is waking up. Soon the cemetery will fill with groundskeepers and mourners, and I'll have to find somewhere else to hide.

But for now, I let myself stay. Let the mist wrap around me like a shield against the growing light. Let myself pretend, just for a moment, that I'm not my mother's daughter, running from the only people who might have actually...

No. I can't finish that thought.

Because some things aren't meant for people like me.

Some stories only end one way. I just wish mine had been different.