Page 4 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

The brick facade of Maple Grove looms ahead like a fortress, a welcome distraction from the weight of their eyes still burning into my back.

Here, at least, I know what to do. Here, I can be useful without anyone trying to fix me.

The antiseptic smell hits as I push through the doors, mixing with the artificial floral air freshener they use to mask the underlying scents of age and decline.

"Morning, Bree." Sarah's tired smile matches the bags under her eyes as she looks up from the reception desk.

"Morning." I manage to lift the corners of my mouth, though my face feels like it might crack from the effort.

I throw myself into the routine: checking vitals, changing beds, helping with medications.

Mrs. Henderson needs help with her knitting.

Mr. Jacobs is having one of his bad days, confusion clouding his eyes as I guide him back to his room.

I talk him through it, my voice steady even as my own thoughts spiral.

"Bree?" Mrs. Henderson's voice pulls me back to the present. Her hands tremble as she works with her yarn, but her eyes are sharp when they meet mine. There's something knowing in her gaze that makes me want to look away.

"Yes, Mrs. H?"

"You remind me of my daughter." She says it softly, like she's sharing a secret. Like she can see right through me.

The words catch me off guard, lodging somewhere between my ribs. "I do?"

"She was always so strong." Her voice carries a hint of pride tinged with sadness. "Even when things were hard, she kept going. You're like that, you know? Always taking care of everyone else."

I force another smile, but it feels brittle on my face. My chest tightens as I think of the guys, of how I pushed them away this morning. Some kind of caretaker I am. "Thanks, Mrs. H. That means a lot."

But as I step into the hallway, her words follow me like ghosts. Strong. The thought almost makes me laugh. I'm not strong. I'm just really good at running away, at pushing away the people who actually give a damn about me.

By the time my shift ends, the sky has swallowed the sun whole, and the streets are quiet. The air feels heavier than usual as I make my way home, the faint glow of the streetlights casting long shadows that remind me too much of my father's silhouette in a doorway.

The mist starts to stir as I turn the corner to my apartment. It curls around my feet, cool and insistent, like it's been waiting for me. Like it knows what kind of night this is going to be.

"What do you want?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. The words hang in the air between us, heavy with everything I'm trying not to remember.

The mist drifts at the edges of my vision as I turn the corner to my apartment, hovering like a distant observer. Like always. Sometimes I wonder if I'm imagining the way it seems to follow me, the way it lingers in doorways and shadows.

I fumble with my keys, the metal cold against my shaking fingers as I unlock the door to my shoebox apartment. The Ridge, as I mockingly call it, greets me with its familiar musty smell and oppressive silence. The air feels stale, trapped, just like me. Home sweet home, right?

Dropping my bag by the door, I kick off my shoes and shuffle to the kitchenette.

The linoleum floor creaks beneath my feet, each step a weary sound that matches the hollow ache in my chest. God, I was such an idiot this morning.

The guys were just trying to help, and I pushed them away.

Again. Like always. Because that's what I do best, isn't it?

I grab a mug from the cupboard, carefully avoiding the chipped one that says World's Best Daughter.

The irony stings every time. The coffee maker sputters to life, its rhythmic dripping a poor substitute for the warmth of real conversation, for the connection I keep throwing away like it's somehow going to protect them.

As I wait for my liquid lifeline, I lean against the counter and close my eyes.

Gray's concerned face flashes in my mind, followed by Wes's furrowed brow and Rhett's sharp words.

Theo's quiet understanding, Jace's forced smile—they'd all been there, trying to bridge the gap I keep forcing wider.

They'd be better off without me, I tell myself again.

I'm just dragging them down, a constant reminder of a past they're trying to escape.

A broken thing they can't fix, no matter how hard they try.

The coffee maker beeps, jarring me from my spiral of self-loathing. I pour the steaming liquid into my mug, the bitter aroma filling my nostrils. It's a small comfort, but I'll take what I can get. It's more than I deserve anyway.

Cradling the warm mug in my hands, I shuffle to the couch. My gaze falls on the old, worn journal still on the coffee table. Something tugs at me—maybe it's masochism, or maybe it's just the need to punish myself further for pushing away the only people who still give a damn about me.

With a resigned sigh, I set down my coffee and reach for the journal. The leather is soft under my fingers, worn smooth by years of desperate scribbling. I flip it open to a random page, my heart sinking as I recognize the date at the top.

July 15th.

I was twelve.

My hands tremble as I read the first line, written in the shaky handwriting of a child whose world had just been shattered.

"Daddy came into my room tonight. He said we were going to play a special game, just the two of us."

The words blur as tears fill my eyes, but I force myself to keep reading. Every detail is seared into my memory, but seeing it on the page makes it real in a way my nightmares never could. The fear, the confusion, the pain—it's all there in black and white.

I read about how I curled up in the corner of my bed afterward, clutching my stuffed bear and praying for my mom to come home. But she never did. She was already gone by then, swallowed up by whatever took her away from us.

My breathing is shallow, my chest tight as I snap the journal shut, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence of the apartment. My stomach churns, and for a moment, I think I might be sick. I press my hands to my face, willing the tears to stop, but they fall anyway, hot and relentless.

The mist hovers near the window, a faint presence at the edge of my awareness. Watching. Always watching. I turn away from it, shoving the journal under the coffee table. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I tell myself.

But the weight in my chest doesn't lift. It presses harder, heavier, until I can't fight it anymore. My legs give out, and I sink to the floor, my back against the couch. The tears come again, slower this time, as I hug my knees to my chest.

The room feels too quiet, too empty. The ache spreads, clawing its way through every inch of me until I feel hollow, like I'm barely here. The walls press in, the silence growing teeth.

"I can't do this anymore," I whisper into the darkness, my voice cracking.

The words fall flat, swallowed by the stillness.

Through the window, the mist shifts and swirls, like it's trying to reach me.

Its familiar coolness brushes against my skin, but even that comfort feels wrong tonight. Everything feels wrong.

My limbs grow heavy as exhaustion drags me under.

The couch digs into my shoulder, the floor hard beneath me, but I don't move.

Can't move. The mist thickens around me, its presence both soothing and suffocating.

Like it knows something I don't. Like it's trying to tell me something I'm not ready to hear.

I close my eyes, letting the tears dry tacky on my cheeks. The last thing I notice before sleep claims me is how the mist seems to pulse in rhythm with my breathing, wrapping around me like a shroud. Like a promise. Or maybe a warning.