"Before the Clock Strikes Eighteen"

Chapter One: The Clock in Her Bones

Jean ran through a forest made of silver trees.

The leaves whispered her name in voices she didn’t recognize. The moon overhead was fractured, pieces of it floating like forgotten dreams. Her feet didn’t touch the ground—she was gliding, pulled by something unseen.

Then she saw him.

A boy cloaked in shadow, standing at the edge of a mirror-like river. His back was turned, but she felt him—like his very presence had rewound time. The moment she stepped closer, everything around her froze. Even the wind.

He turned.

But before she could see his face, the trees collapsed into mist, the river shattered like glass—and she woke up gasping.

The Vale Home was quiet except for the clock ticking too loudly in the hallway. Jean sat up, heart racing, sweat clinging to her back. Another dream. Another fragment.

They were getting stronger.

She glanced at her phone. 6:29 AM.

Tick.

The clock on her wall jumped ahead one second without moving.

By the time she reached the kitchen, Mrs. Vale was already humming and packing lunches. The air smelled like cinnamon toast and warm milk. Morning sunlight spilled through the windows, catching in the dust motes that danced above the table.

“Good morning, sleepy magic bean,” Mrs. Vale said with a fond smile.

Jean rolled her eyes. “You make up a new nickname every day.”

Mrs. Vale handed her a brown paper bag. “Habit of a woman who’s raised twenty-seven kids. You’re my last magic bean, though. So I get to be annoying.”

Jean tried to smile, but something in her chest was too heavy.

“You’ve been distant lately,” Mrs. Vale added gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Dreams again?”

Jean hesitated. “Sort of. And just… weird stuff. Lights flicker when I’m around. People’s thoughts... I think I hear them sometimes.”

Mrs. Vale didn’t laugh.

Instead, she squeezed Jean’s shoulder and said, “Being different isn’t the same as being broken. Remember that.”

Outside, the sky over Merrow City was slate-gray, clouds thick like wet wool. Jean zipped up her coat, slung her bag over her shoulder, and gave a little wave to the orange tabby cat waiting faithfully on the porch step.

“You again?” she murmured.

The cat blinked at her, slow and watchful, then padded along behind her as she walked to the tram stop.

It had been following her for a week now. No collar. No sound. Just presence.

Merrow College

The college was older than most buildings in the city. Ivy climbed its stone walls. Arched doorways and narrow halls gave it the strange elegance of an academy in an old novel. The interior smelled like paper, rain, and pencil shavings.

Jean moved through it like a ghost. Quiet. A little too aware of everyone else.

The students were loud, messy, confident. Boys played basketball in the hallway. Girls chatted around lockers, showing off nails or complaining about upcoming exams.

Some nodded to Jean. Some smiled politely. Others didn’t notice her at all.

She preferred the silence.

In literature class, she took her usual seat by the window. Mr. Halder was reciting Byron with his usual theatrical flair, but her eyes kept drifting outside.

That’s when she saw him.

Across the courtyard. Still as stone. A boy in a black hoodie, standing beneath a cherry tree that hadn’t bloomed in years.

He was looking up.

At her.

She couldn’t see his face, but she felt it—that feeling again. Like time itself had slowed around her. The sound in the room dimmed. Her thoughts felt suspended.

Then the bell rang.

She blinked—and he was gone.

At lunch, she sat alone beneath the rusted clock tower, its hands permanently stuck at 11:59. The hum of student life buzzed around her—shoes scuffing pavement, someone’s music leaking from earbuds, laughter from a group on the grass.

And thoughts.

Thoughts that weren’t hers.

“She’s kinda strange.”

“Pretty though. In a haunting way.”

“Blue eyes like frost. Doesn’t talk to anyone.”

“Wonder what her deal is…”

Jean pressed her hands against her ears, even though the voices weren’t coming from outside.

“Stop thinking,” she whispered.

The cat curled at her feet again. She didn’t know how it always found her. But it never meowed. It just sat there like it was waiting for something.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t shout in my head,” she told it quietly.

Later That Day – Home

Dinner was louder than usual. One of the younger kids had aced a math test. Another was showing off her glittery art project. Jean sat between two empty chairs, poking at her food and watching the flickering chandelier above the dining table.

That’s when Eli walked in.

Same maroon hoodie. Same awkward smile. He nodded at the table and slid into the seat beside her.

“Hey, mind-reader,” he said, teasing softly.

She stiffened.

He caught it. “Kidding. I mean, not really—but you know, in a cool way.”

Jean looked down at her plate. “I’m not a mind-reader.”

He shrugged. “Still pretty cool. You’ve always been... different.”

Jean tried to hold onto a soft smile, but then—his voice appeared in her mind.

You probably don’t even remember that pencil you lent me in sixth grade. But I’ve liked you ever since.

She doesn’t even see me. Not really.

Her breath caught.

She turned sharply away.

“I’m going upstairs,” she mumbled, standing too fast.

Eli looked down. “Yeah. Sure.”

Stupid. I should’ve said nothing. She thinks I’m creepy now.

Her steps were too quick. Her face burned. She hated this. Hated knowing what people truly thought when they wore such easy smiles.

In her room, she sat on the edge of her bed, head in her hands.

She looked at herself in the mirror: blue eyes, too bright. Long lashes that gave her a curious, distant stare. Her features were delicate but sharp. Strangers often said she looked like someone they’d dreamed about.

There was something about her.

Something that made people notice. And she wished they wouldn’t.

The orange tabby was already there—curled on her window ledge like it had lived there forever.

Jean looked at it and whispered, “What’s happening to me?”

And far outside, on the edge of the street under a flickering lamp, stood the same boy.

Still hidden beneath his hood.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

And the air bent around him like the clock of the world had paused—just for her.