Page 5 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

A week. Seven whole days of silence since I woke up on that floor, muscles stiff and eyes swollen.

No calls. No texts. Not even a passive-aggressive meme from Jace.

It's what I wanted, isn't it?

The thought swirls in my mind, tangling with the ache in my chest. I press my forehead to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass.

My feet throb from another double shift at Maple Grove, but the physical pain is almost welcome—something real to focus on besides the hollow feeling inside.

The gray sky feels fitting. Appropriate.

It's been a week since I stormed out of Mercer's, and while part of me feels lighter, the rest of me feels. .. empty.

For the first time in years, they've given me space—real space. I told them to leave me alone, and they listened. I should be happy. Relieved. I should be basking in the quiet, in the freedom of not having anyone else to answer to.

Instead, it feels like there's an invisible thread pulling at me, taut and fraying, waiting to snap.

The week has been a blur of restless nights and too-early mornings.

Nightmares have clawed their way into my sleep, leaving me shaken and gasping for air.

Each one is the same: shadows creeping in, voices echoing from a past I've worked so hard to bury.

My mother's voice. My father's anger. And the mist—always the mist, curling and shifting, a silent witness to it all.

I've thrown myself into work, picking up extra shifts at Maple Grove, distracting myself with Mrs. Henderson's stories and Mr. Jacobs' wandering thoughts. But even there, the quiet moments between tasks leave room for memories to creep in.

The rain drums against the window in a steady rhythm, each drop creating tiny rivers that distort the world outside. It reminds me of tears—the ones I won't let fall anymore.

Even with the silence, they’re still here

Gray’s sharp eyes, always calculating, always seeing too much.

Theo’s warmth, his easy grin that could thaw an iceberg.

Jace’s carefree laugh, hiding a depth he doesn’t let many see.

Rhett’s steady presence, a wall I could lean on if I let myself.

And Wes... Wes, with his quiet strength and the way his words always cut right to the heart of things.

I shake my head, tearing my gaze from the rain. No. This is for the best. I told them to stay away because I knew I couldn’t keep dragging them into my mess. They don’t need my baggage. They deserve better than that—better than me.

But the truth is, I miss them.

Life feels colder without Jace’s ridiculous jokes. The quiet is suffocating without Theo’s laughter filling the gaps. I even miss Rhett’s constant pushback, the way he challenges me in ways no one else dares to.

I cross the room, grabbing the journal from the coffee table. I flip it open, not bothering to find a specific page. The words blur together, fragments of thoughts and memories that feel both familiar and foreign.

March 3rd, Junior Year.

I think if I just disappeared, no one would notice.

Would they even care? I tried calling Rhett today.

He was with Cindy Matthews—I could hear her laughing in the background when he finally picked up.

He said he'd call me back, but he never did.

Probably for the best. He doesn't need to deal with my mess anyway.

Not when he has someone normal, someone whole.

I flip the page, my throat tight.

April 15th.

Jace made everyone laugh at lunch today.

Even me. For a second, I almost forgot about everything—about Dad, about Mom, about the bruises I had to cover up this morning.

He caught me smiling and did this ridiculous victory dance.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows how much those moments mean.

How sometimes his stupid jokes are the only thing that gets me through the day.

I snap the journal shut, the sound sharp in the stillness.

Enough.

I toss the journal onto the couch and grab my hoodie from the hook by the door.

I need air.

Space.

Something to shake off the weight pressing on my chest.

The streets are quiet, the city muted under the gray sky. My feet carry me without thought, the familiar route winding toward the park at the edge of the neighborhood. It's a small slice of green in a sea of concrete, and on a day like this, it's empty except for the ghosts of a thousand memories.

This is fine. I'm fine.

But even as I tell myself that, the mist stirs at the edges of my vision, curling around the base of the bench like smoke from a forgotten cigarette.

It's funny how this place always feels like a bubble, separate from everything else.

I used to come here when I was a teenager, back when home felt like a cage and school wasn't much better.

Back when I still believed running away could fix anything.

The guys would find me here sometimes—Jace with his pockets full of stolen candy bars, Gray with his silent understanding, Rhett pretending he'd "just happened" to be passing by.

A shiver runs through me as another memory surfaces, unbidden but vivid.

I was sixteen, sitting right here on this very bench. The late afternoon sun was warm on my skin, the air heavy with the smell of freshly cut grass. A boy—Daniel—sat beside me, too close. His knee bumped against mine, and I shifted away, but he only leaned closer.

“You’re so pretty, Bree,” he murmured, his hand brushing my arm. I froze, my stomach twisting. “I bet you’ve never even been kissed, huh? You’re not gonna say no to me, are you?”

I did. Of course I did. But he didn’t care. His hand moved to my thigh, and panic exploded in my chest. I shoved him, harder than I thought I could, and scrambled to my feet.

“Don’t touch me!” My voice cracked, loud and shrill, drawing a few curious glances from passersby.

Daniel stood too, his face a mix of anger and embarrassment. “What the fuck, Bree. Don’t be such a tease. What’s your problem?”

He grabbed my wrist, yanking me toward him. The sharp sting of his slap came before I even realized what was happening. My cheek burned, hot tears stinging my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

“Hey!” The voice was sharp, cutting through the fog of shock and fear.

I turned, and there he was. Theo. His broad frame filled my vision, his usually light expression hard and unyielding. I’d never seen him look like that before, and I haven’t since.

Theo didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped between us, his body a wall of protection. “You need to leave,” he told Daniel, his voice low but dangerous.

Daniel tried to bluster, muttering something about it being a misunderstanding, but Theo didn’t budge. He just stood there, his blue eyes blazing, until Daniel finally backed down and slunk away.

“You okay?” Theo asked, turning to me. His voice softened, the tension in his shoulders easing.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He didn’t push. He just sat with me on the bench until the sun dipped below the horizon, neither of us saying much. It was the kind of quiet I needed—the kind that didn’t demand anything from me.

Back in the present, I blink, my hand tightening around the strap of my bag.

The memory fades, but the ache in my chest lingers.

I haven't thought about that day in years, but sitting here, it feels as raw as it did then.

That's the thing about the guys—they've always been there, stepping in when I needed them most, even when I couldn't admit I needed anyone.

Theo didn't know what I'd been through. Not really. None of them did. But they'd seen enough to know I needed someone, even if I couldn't ask for it. And now... now I've pushed them so far away, I'm not sure they'll ever come back.

The sound of children’s laughter pulls me back to the present. I glance around, taking in a family that brought two little ones to play in the rain. It’s peaceful here, but it doesn’t feel like it used to. Nothing does.

With a sigh, I stand and head home, my feet dragging against the path. The weight of the past clings to me like a shadow, one I can’t seem to outrun.

When I reach my apartment, the sight of the daisy stops me cold.

It's lying on the doormat, simple and unassuming, yet so out of place against the peeling paint of the door and the stained concrete hallway.

Perfect white petals, like the ones that used to appear on my windowsill when I was fifteen, when everything felt darkest.

For a moment, I just stare at it, my mind spinning. It doesn't make sense. Who would leave this here? There's no note, no explanation, just a flower.

My chest tightens as I crouch to pick it up, the delicate petals trembling slightly in my fingers.

A memory flashes before I can stop it - me at sixteen, curled on my bed after Dad kicked me down the stairs.

The pain in my ribs made it hard to breathe, but worse was the hopelessness, the certainty that this was all my life would ever be.

Then I saw it on my windowsill. A single daisy, laid there as carefully as this one.

Perfect white petals catching the morning light.

I never figured out who left it, but for a moment, the weight in my chest had lifted.

Someone had seen me. Someone had cared enough to leave this small piece of beauty.

Other daisies appeared after that, always when things felt darkest. Always when I needed them most. But I never caught who left them. Never let myself hope too hard about what they meant.

A memory flashes: Gray, walking past my window every morning on his way to school, never saying a word. Rhett, always watching, always noticing when I wore long sleeves in summer. Theo, with his careful questions that never pushed too far.

Could this be them? Did one of them leave it? Or is this just some weird coincidence, another piece of the universe's cruel sense of humor?

I shake my head, pressing the flower to my chest as I unlock the door.

Inside, the apartment feels even smaller than usual, the familiar mustiness pressing down on me.

The mist stirs faintly at the edges of the room, curling toward me like it knows I need the company.

I sink onto the couch, the daisy still in my hand, and stare at it.

It’s probably nothing. Just a random flower, dropped by someone passing through. That’s the logical explanation, isn’t it?

But what if it’s not?

The thought lodges in my mind, stubborn and impossible to ignore. My fingers trace the soft petals as I turn the daisy over, again and again. It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. But for the first time in a week, I feel something other than the crushing weight of my own thoughts.

It’s just a flower. Small. Insignificant. But it feels like a question. A whisper that maybe, just maybe, I haven’t burned every bridge.

I place the daisy on my coffee table, impossibly white against the dark wood.

In the fading light, it almost seems to glow, like the hope I'm trying so hard not to feel.

The mist lingers at the edges of my vision, quiet and watchful, as constant as the guys have always been—even when I wish they weren't. Even when I tell myself I don't deserve them.

I don't tell it to go away. Instead, I let it be, just like I let myself remember, just for tonight, what it feels like to be seen.