Page 57 of Crown of the Mist

The mist stirs around me, curling tighter, colder, almost restless. I reach out without thinking, my fingers brushing against one of the daisies. The warmth I felt before is barely there now, a ghost of what it was.

I pluck it carefully, the stem trembling in my hand. The glow fades almost entirely, and for a second, it feels like I’ve lost her all over again. Like this is the last piece of her, slipping through my fingers.

“Bree,” I whisper, the word catching in my throat.

I stand slowly, the daisy cradled in my palm, its light faint but persistent. My chest tightens as I turn back toward the house, the weight of failure pressing heavy on my shoulders. But as I step forward, the light shifts—brighter now, spreading from the petals down the stem, wrapping around my fingers like a pulse.

The mist moves with it, swirling around my feet in a way that feels deliberate. Intentional.

My heart pounds as I take another step, and the light flares again, stronger this time. Guiding.

“Is this you?” My voice is barely audible, my fingers tightening around the daisy. “Are you—”

The light pulses again, pulling me toward the edge of the yard. The mist flows ahead of me, weaving through the grass like it knows where to go. Like it’s leading me.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t question. I just follow.

Because if this is her, if this is the only way I can find her, I’m not stopping until I do.

The light grows brighter with every step, the daisy in my hand glowing like a tiny beacon. The mist swirls ahead of me, weaving between the trees as I follow its lead. My pulse pounds in my ears, each step quicker than the last.

I don’t question where it’s taking me anymore. The streets, the turns—they blur together, fading into the background. All that matters is the pull in my chest, the overwhelming sense that she’s close.

The glow intensifies as the mist guides me toward a familiar iron gate—Oakwood Cemetery. My breath catches, my chest tightening as I push the gate open, the creak of iron breaking the stillness of the dawn.

I step inside, scanning the quiet rows of headstones. The morning sun casts long shadows across the uneven ground, the mistcurling low around the stones. It feels heavier here, charged with something I can’t name.

And then I see her.

A figure kneeling near a fresh grave, dark hair catching the faint light. My heart lurches, and I start toward her, the daisy glowing brighter in my hand as if urging me forward.

“Bree,” I whisper, the name slipping from my lips like a prayer.

She doesn’t move. The mist swirls thickly around her, obscuring the details, but I can see her shape, her stillness, the way her shoulders hunch against the chill. Relief floods through me, sharp and overwhelming, as I close the distance between us.

“Bree,” I call again, louder this time.

The figure shifts, slowly turning toward me.

35. Bree

The voice sends ice down my spine, sharp and unmistakable. My breath locks in my chest.

No. No, no, no. Not here. Not now.

But I know that voice. I know it in the same way I know nightmares.

Slowly, like my body is moving through water, I turn.

"Phil," I manage, my voice barely audible over the roar of my pulse.

He smirks, stepping closer, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his jacket like he has all the time in the world. “Nice to see you again, sweetheart. Thought we might have a little... chat.”

My mouth goes dry as I take a step back, the fresh dirt of Mrs. Henderson’s grave shifting beneath my feet. The mist surges around me, thicker now,like it’s trying to form a barrier.

“What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“What do you think?” His tone is smooth, but the underlying menace sends a shiver through me. “You’ve been making quite the impression, Bree. Got a lot of people worried about what you might do next.”