Aria Solarin had always believed that mornings carried their own secrets.
Some people woke up to noise—birds, generators humming, voices drifting from open windows. But Aria woke up to stillness. It was the one thing in Brimleigh—a quiet, old town tucked between cedar woods and fog-covered hills—that never changed.
Until the morning everything shifted.
The sun hadn't fully risen when she stepped outside, her notebook tucked under her arm. The sky was painted with a soft blend of lilac and gold, and thin mist curled around her ankles as she walked down the narrow path leading to the riverbank. She came here every dawn to write, hoping the calmness would shake loose ideas for her stories.
She wasn't expecting anything unusual. Not today. Not ever.
Aria paused when she reached the river. The surface was perfectly smooth, like polished glass, not even a ripple despite the cold breeze brushing past her cheeks. Above the water tower, she spotted movement: a figure standing there—tall, still, and too early for anyone sensible to be out.
But when she blinked, the figure was gone.
"Probably just the fog," she whispered to herself, though she knew fog didn't stand like a person and then vanish.
She opened her notebook, and as always, her mind drifted to her mother—Professor Elara Solarin—who'd disappeared almost exactly a year ago on a research trip outside Brimleigh. Everyone said she'd simply gotten lost in the forest. Everyone except Aria. Her mother was brilliant, meticulous, and always left clues behind… tiny patterns in her notes, symbols woven into her journals, messages hidden in plain sight.
Aria never found any that explained what happened.
She ran a thumb along the edge of the notebook, trying to steady the familiar ache in her chest. That was when she heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Fragile. Close enough that she felt it behind her left ear.
"Aria…"
She froze.
The world went silent. Even the wind held its breath.
Aria spun around, expecting someone—anyone—but the riverbank was empty. No footsteps. No shifting bushes. No rustling branches.
Her heart thudded once, then twice, and she backed away slowly.
Voices don't come from nowhere, she told herself. You heard something. Someone must be hiding.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice shaking. "Is someone there?"
Silence.
Then—the whisper again, slightly louder, threaded with something that sounded like urgency.
"Aria… go home."
This time she stumbled backward, nearly dropping her notebook.
The whisper wasn't like a human voice. It felt… layered. Like it echoed from a place she couldn't see. A place that wasn't quite here.
She bolted, running up the path toward her house. Her breath came out in harsh clouds as she reached the front porch and pushed open the door.
Inside, she expected safety.
Instead, she found Neriah leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded. Neriah Thompson—her closest friend since childhood, and the only person who still believed her mother hadn't simply vanished. Neriah's dark curls were tied up in a messy bun, and her sharp brown eyes narrowed with concern the second they landed on Aria.
"You look like you saw a ghost," Neriah said.
"I didn't," Aria replied breathlessly. "At least… I don't think I did."
Neriah raised a brow. "That's not reassuring."
Aria set her notebook on the counter and cradled her hands together, trying to calm her trembling fingers.
"I heard something," Aria said. "A whisper. It said my name. Twice."
Neriah didn't laugh. She didn't roll her eyes or tell Aria she'd imagined it.
Instead, she asked, "What did it say the second time?"
"'Go home.'"
Neriah straightened. "That's… weird."
"Yeah."
"Did you see anyone?"
"No. Nobody."
Neriah stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Aria, you're scaring me a little."
"I'm scaring myself."
But the whisper wasn't what bothered Aria the most. It was the tone. Calm, almost soft, but carrying the same warmth she remembered from childhood bedtime stories—the same warmth as her mother's voice.
She didn't say that part out loud. Neriah already worried enough.
Before Neriah could ask another question, a knock sounded at the door—three slow raps, perfectly spaced. Aria and Neriah exchanged a look.
No one visited this early.
Aria walked cautiously to the front door and opened it.
Standing there was Mr. Dorian Hale, the town librarian. He was tall, with silver-streaked hair and a long coat that brushed against his boots. He rarely left the library and never visited houses unannounced.
"Good morning, Aria," he said, adjusting his glasses. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent."
Aria swallowed. "What about?"
He glanced toward the forest behind her house… the same forest her mother disappeared into.
"It's about your mother's last journal," he said. "I think someone has been trying to hide one of her entries. And I believe"—his voice dropped—"it might be connected to something that happened last night."
Aria's stomach sank. "What happened last night?"
Mr. Hale looked at her with an expression she'd never seen on his face before.
"Someone broke into the library," he whispered. "And the only thing they took… was a page with your name on it."
Neriah gasped.
Aria couldn't speak.
Mr. Hale continued, "That whisper you heard… it was a warning."
Aria's heartbeat stuttered.
Because now she knew something for certain:
Whatever was happening didn't start today—
It started a year ago, with her mother's disappearance.
And now…
It had finally reached her.