Page 41 of Crown of the Mist

The mist swirls thicker now, curling around us like it’s watching. Protecting. Approving.

For the first time in a long time, I feel... safe.

And I let myself stay. Just for a little while.

???

Wes gave me some space, slipping out of theattic with a lingering glance that said more than words could. I stayed by the window, watching the mist dance around my feet as the sun rose higher, warming the pale gray walls. But the quiet that had felt so comfortable with him here now pressed in, making my thoughts spiral.

What am I doing? Letting my guard down, letting them see me like this...

I pace the length of the attic, my bare feet silent against the wooden floors. The mist follows, thicker than usual, almost urgent in the way it curls around my ankles. Like it's trying to tell me something.

The space feels different now, bathed in the soft light of late morning. Warmer, somehow.

The mark catches my eye immediately - sharper than before, its edges seeming to shimmer in the late morning light. It's not quite a symbol, not quite writing, but something in between. The lines flow like water frozen mid-stream, forming what might be a crown, or maybe a knot. The longer I stare, the more it seems to move, though I know that's impossible.

My fingers brush the wood before I can stop myself. The mark feels warm beneath my touch, humming with something that makes my skin tingle.

The mist swirls higher as I crouch down,drawn by something on the floor beneath the doorframe. At first, it just looks like dirt, scattered in a small, neat pile. But when I reach out, the texture is different—softer, finer.

Seeds.

I scoop them into my hand, letting them sift through my fingers. They’re tiny, dark, and unremarkable, but something about them feels… significant. Like they’re meant for me. They're unlike any seeds I've seen before - dark as night but with a faint iridescent sheen, like oil on water. They feel impossibly light in my palm, almost weightless, yet there's a weight to them that has nothing to do with their size. Something about them reminds me of the daisies that used to appear on my windowsill, though I couldn't say why.

The urge to plant them comes out of nowhere, sharp and insistent. It’s ridiculous—I don’t know the first thing about gardening, and I’ve never been one for getting my hands dirty. But the idea takes root, and before I know it, I’m heading downstairs, the seeds clutched tightly in my palm.

The backyard is cool and damp from the morning rain, the earth soft beneath my bare feet. The mist lingers in the corners of the yard, curling around the edges of the old oak tree where the guys strung up the lights. It feels likeit’s watching, waiting to see what I’ll do.

I kneel near the base of the tree, the damp grass soaking through Rhett’s borrowed sweatpants. My fingers dig into the soil, hesitant at first, then with more purpose. The earth smells rich and alive, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel weighed down by the ghosts of my past.

The seeds slip from my hand into the shallow holes I’ve made, and I cover them gently, pressing the soil down with care. It’s a small act, almost meaningless, but something inside me shifts as I sit back on my heels, wiping my hands on my pants.

The mist swirls closer, wrapping around the base of the tree and then winding its way up into the branches. The air feels warmer, lighter, like it’s responding to the simple act of planting something, of starting fresh.

For a moment, I just sit there, letting the quiet settle over me. The weight in my chest feels a little less heavy, the shadows in my mind a little less dark.

25. Theo

The coffee maker hums, a steady counterpoint to my racing thoughts as I watch Bree through the kitchen window. She looks small against the backdrop of the old oak tree, knees pressed into damp earth, morning light catching on her dark hair. Her borrowed clothes - Rhett's sweatpants, my hoodie - make her seem both more fragile and moreherethan she's been in years.

I've seen her run. Hide. Fight. But I've never seen her like this - on her knees in our backyard, fingers buried in soil like she's searching for something. The mist curls around her in ways I've never witnessed before, almost protective in its intensity.

"That's new."

I don't startle at Gray's voice behind me - we're all moving carefully these days, making our presence known before we get too close.Old habits from watching Bree flinch at sudden sounds.

"The gardening or the mist?" I ask, though I know the answer. Gray's probably been cataloging the mist's changing behavior as carefully as I have.

He moves to stand beside me, his own coffee forgotten in his hand. There's tension in his jaw that wasn't there yesterday, before we found the cameras. Before we knew just how deep this went.

"Both." His voice carries that edge it gets when he's trying to solve a problem he can't fix with his hands. "She was in the attic again this morning."

"With Wes," I add, remembering the quiet way Wes came down earlier, something raw and careful in his expression. "I heard them talking."

"She let him close," Gray says, and there's something like hope beneath his measured tone. "Didn't pull away."

I nod, watching as Bree sits back on her heels, studying whatever she's planted with an intensity I haven't seen since we were kids and she'd lose herself in books. The mist weaves through the tree branches above her, casting strange shadows that seem to move independently of the breeze.