I do remember the first years of my life clearly — not the way my parents do — I remember Forks.
I remember the smell of rain in the moss,the sound of the forest dripping softly at dawn,and the way the clouds seemed to belong to us,as if they wanted to stay close forever.
For a long time, I thought Forks was home.
And maybe it was, in every way that mattered.But even homes have expiration dates when you don't age.
The first cracks appeared around the thirty-year mark.
I noticed it in the way old Mr. Jacobs at the grocery store squinted at my parents, whispering to his wife that "those Cullens look younger every time I see them."In the way teachers at the high school — a younger generation now — found old yearbooks and asked why my mother looked exactly the same as the photo from a century-old archived binder.
The stories started as jokes.
"Maybe they're vampires.""What if they're part of some anti-aging experiment?""Maybe they just have ridiculously good genes."
But jokes have a way of becoming theories.And theories, when repeated often enough, become rumors.
My family tried to adapt.We changed hairstyles, changed clothing, even changed our mannerisms.We pretended to age — subtly, slowly.But there's only so much you can fake when the town remembers your face from ten, twenty, forty years ago.
The real moment we knew it was over came from the most unexpected place:a child.
A little girl, no more than eight, stopped Bella in the market.She stared up at my mother with wide, honest eyes and asked,
"Why aren't you getting older? My mommy says everyone grows up."
Bella froze.Not from fear — from heartbreak.Children didn't lie or invent legends. They simply saw the truth.
That evening, we gathered in the living room, the rain tapping softly against the windows in a rhythm I had known my whole life.Edward didn't speak at first. He didn't need to. I could sense the heaviness in the room — the quiet agreement already forming in their minds.
"We've stayed too long," Carlisle finally said.
Alice nodded, her eyes distant, as if she were already watching a future where we were gone.
Esme smiled sadly — that soft, warm smile she wore like armor."We always knew this day would come."
Jacob was the only one who disagreed.
"We don't have to leave," he said, jaw clenched.His voice carried something wild, something rooted in La Push and everything he'd ever protected.
"Jake," I whispered, touching his hand.He looked at me, and I saw the pain behind the loyalty.He would stay for me.He would fight for me.He would burn the entire world down for me.
But Forks wasn't ours anymore.Not the way it once had been.
We left on a foggy morning, when the sky hung low and gray and the forest seemed to watch us go.Alice insisted we pack lightly — "Memories weigh more than clothes," she said — and maybe she was right.
We didn't say goodbyes.We didn't want to leave traces.
As we drove away, I pressed my hand against the window, watching the trees blur into streaks of green. Every turn of the car felt like a thread snapping in a tapestry I'd spent my whole life weaving.
Edward glanced at me through the rearview mirror.
"It's not the end, Ness," he said gently."We've started over before."
I nodded.But starting over is easier when you're not leaving pieces of yourself behind.
The rain followed us until the Washington border, as if trying to hold us there a little longer.
And then — like a breath — it let go.
We became ghosts of Forks that day.Names whispered in old cafés, faces half-remembered in stories told by people who weren't sure if they were imagining us.
Some said we moved for work.Some said we had family illnesses.Some said we died.
And some — the ones who remembered too much — insisted we never existed at all.
Forks moved on.It had to.But we carried it with us, silently, like a scar made of rain.
Leaving wasn't an escape.It was survival.
It was the first step in a journey that would take us across a century of new identities, new towns, new stories — until eventually, inevitably, the world grew too curious, and we grew too familiar.
Until the only place left quiet enough to hide us was the far, frozen edge of Alaska.
But that…that chapter had not begun yet.
Back then, all I knew was this:
Even immortals can feel the sting of losing a home.
Especially one they loved.