Page 10 of Crown of the Mist

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 softpetals 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.

6. Bree

My shift is quieter than usual tonight, a welcome relief after a week of restless nights and lingering exhaustion. The dining room is almost empty as I clear the last plates, the familiar routine almost peaceful until I notice Mrs. Henderson's missing from her usual spot by the window. She never misses dinner.

I'm stacking the dishes when a scream shatters the silence.

"Help! Someone, help!"

The plate slips from my hands, ceramic hitting linoleum with a crash that echoes the way my heart slams against my ribs. I run toward the sound, my feet carrying me before my mind can catch up. Rounding the corner, I skid to a halt, my breath catching in my throat.

Mrs. Henderson lies crumpled on the floor, her wispy white hair spread across the linoleumlike it's reaching for something unseen. Her skin is too pale, her hand outstretched toward something I can't see. Just like Mom that last morning, reaching for something in the dark before she vanished—

No. Focus.

For a moment, the world seems to stop. My legs lock, my chest tightening with a familiar, suffocating weight.

"I called 911!" a voice shouts, jolting me back into motion.

I drop to my knees beside her, ignoring the sharp pain as they hit the floor. My hands tremble as I reach for hers, clutching them tightly, willing warmth back into her cold fingers. "Mrs. Henderson," I say, my voice steady despite the panic clawing at me. "It's Bree. I'm here. Just hold on."

Her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips, weak but present. Like a bird trying to break free.

The sound of running footsteps pulls me back. Everything blurs into motion after that - the paramedics arriving, their movements swift and precise as they work. Someone asks about family contacts. The question hits like a physical blow: she has no one.

"I'll go with her," I hear myself say, my voice thinbut determined. "She shouldn't be alone."

The hospital smells like antiseptic and rain-soaked pavement. I sit slumped in a plastic chair, my hands gripping each other tightly in my lap. The hours blur together as I wait, the buzz of fluorescent lights making my head throb. I don't know how long I've been here, but when the nurse approaches, I already know what she's going to say.

"She's gone," the nurse tells me gently. "She passed peacefully."

They're words meant to comfort, but they don't. I stayed with her, held her hand as her breaths grew shallow, and told her it was okay to let go. But as I sit there now, the hollowness feels unbearable.

"You didn't have to stay," the nurse adds kindly, her hand on my shoulder. "Most people don't."

I shrug, my voice barely a whisper. "Someone should have."

The words feel small, like they don't hold enough weight for the moment. But it's all I can offer.

The rain greets me as I step outside, cold and relentless. My hoodie does little to shield me from the downpour, but I don't care. The mist begins to curl faintly at my feet, its presence familiar yet unsettling. It's like an unspokenreminder of how broken I really am.

Mrs. Henderson's last moments replay in my head as I walk. The softness of her grip, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. I told her she wasn't alone. I hope she believed me.

My building looms in the distance, dark and foreboding. As I draw closer, something feels off. My steps falter when I spot the figure leaning against the wall near the entrance, too still to be casual.