Chapter 1
Time had stopped breathing.
The morning was silent—too silent. Snow cracked under my boots, but it was the only sound. No birds. No wind. Not even the buzz of distant power lines. Just me and that hush, the kind that presses into your skin and whispers: you’re not supposed to be here.
My fingers had turned bluish, raw with cold, but I didn’t care. I kept walking. Where to? I didn’t know. Only that I had to. That if I stopped, the silence might start to speak.
Then it did.
A sharp crash.
Then—
A voice.
Right behind my ear.
“Sophie.”
I froze mid-step. My breath clouded in the air, too loud. I spun around, heart hammering, but the street was empty. Just frostbitten air and ghosted tire tracks leading nowhere.
I told myself it was the wind. That it hadn’t really said my name. That I wasn’t hearing things.
I kept walking. Slowly. My footsteps too loud now, like the town was listening.
Up ahead loomed the old mill station, long-abandoned. Its roof sagged like a weary spine, windows black and watching. I didn’t want to go inside—but the cold was slicing into me, bone-deep. I needed shelter.
The front door was jammed. I shoved my weight into it once, twice. Nothing. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Something whispered again. Closer.
“Find the truth.”
My hands shook. I didn’t ask who it was. Not out loud. I was afraid it might answer.
I spotted a brick by the steps, and before I could think better of it, I shattered a window. The sound—violent and alive—rippled through the silence. I climbed in, careful not to slice myself.
Inside, the air was stale with dust and old metal. The voice was louder now, but nowhere. It didn’t echo. It didn’t move. It just was.
“Who are you?” I whispered. “What do you want from me?”
No answer. Just the creak of old beams overhead.
The station looked like people had fled in a panic—chairs tipped over, mugs still half-full, papers scattered. A knife sat on a table like someone had put it down mid-motion. I took it. I didn’t know why. It felt… necessary.
I kept searching. A flashlight—dead. Letters—ripped and unreadable.
Then I found it: a rusted iron key, old enough to predate the station itself.
1600s maybe. Heavy in my palm. Warm.
I stared at it. It stared back.
It’s yours.
The thought wasn’t mine. But it was in my head.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Not really.
I holed up in an abandoned house down the road, chair jammed under the knob. I curled up on the couch with my backpack clutched to my chest. But sleep didn’t come. Not until I was too tired to fight it.
And then—
I dreamed of home.
But not the real one. The memory version, the too-perfect one, where sunlight looked staged and the street signs spelled names I’d never heard. A man stood at the end of the block. I couldn’t see his face. But I knew he was smiling. And watching.
He raised his hand.
I woke up screaming.
The sun was just rising. Pale blades of light cut through the windows. My nails were caked in dirt.
I had carved three words into the hardwood floor beside me.
“Don’t trust her.”
My hands were shaking.
I didn’t remember doing it.
Something is wrong with this town.
And something is wrong with me
