Page 55 of Crown of the Mist

"Doesn't matter what she heard," Rhett cuts in, his jaw clenched. "She ran. Again. Like she always does when things get..."

"Real?" Gray finishes, but there's no judgment in his tone. Just a bone-deep understanding that makes my chest ache.

I move to the window, drawn by something I can't explain. The daisies still glow faintly in the morning light, untouched by whatever drove her to destroy everything else. The mist curls around them, restless and cold, like it's trying to tell us something we're too slow to understand.

"We need to find her," Jace says, but uncertainty threads through his voice. "Before she..."

"Convinces herself she was right to run?" I finish quietly. "That whatever she thinks she heard was proof she doesn't belong here?"

No one answers. Because what can we say? That we've been dancing around this thing between all of us for years? That maybe the idea ofchoosing - or not having to choose - was too much for her to face?

"She'll have gone somewhere she feels safe," Theo says finally, his analytical mind already working through possibilities. "Somewhere she can process whatever she thinks she discovered."

Or somewhere she can hide, I think but don't say. Somewhere she can build her walls back up, convince herself that running was the only choice she had.

The morning sun catches on the torn pieces of her past, and I wonder if this is how it always ends with Bree - not with a fight or a goodbye, but with scattered fragments of memories she couldn't bear to keep.

33. Bree

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 strapgrounding 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 coolstone 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.