The sky over Mystic Ridge had surrendered to a bruised, heavy purple by the time I pulled my car through the rusted iron gates of the cemetery. It was a place that most people in town avoided after dusk, citing ghost stories or the unsettling stillness of the valley, but for me, it was the only place that felt honest. The dead didn't ask you how you were feeling. They didn't tilt their heads in that practiced, sympathetic way that made you want to scream. They simply existed in the earth, silent and unmoving, much like the girl I had become.
I stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath my boots—a sound that felt violent in the absolute quiet of the graveyard. A low, silver mist was beginning to crawl across the grass, weaving through the headstones like the fingers of a phantom reaching for the living. It was cold—bitterly so for a September afternoon—but I welcomed the chill. It matched the frost that had settled deep in my marrow since the night of the bridge.
I am coming to visit a world I almost joined, I thought, my internal monologue a rhythmic pulse in the silence. Four months. One hundred and twenty-one days of breathing air that should have been water. Why am I here? To talk to stones? Or to find the ghost that pulled me back?
I walked down the familiar path toward the Vance family plot. The ancient oaks that guarded the cemetery groaned in the wind, their twisted branches clawing at the grey sky. I reached the marble headstone—the one that bore my parents' names and the date that had ended my life. I sat down on the damp grass, ignoring the moisture seeping through my jeans. I pulled my journal from my bag, the leather cool and grounding against my palms.
"I'm back," I whispered, my voice barely a rustle.
I began to write. The ink flowed across the page, a dark river of thoughts I couldn't share with Aunt Jenna or Jeremy. I wrote about the suffocating feeling of the high school hallways, the way the light felt too bright, and the way everyone's laughter sounded like glass breaking. But mostly, I wrote about him.
Silas.
Even writing his name felt like a secret. I could still feel the phantom sensation of his gaze in the hallway—the way his green eyes had looked into mine and seemed to see the very moment my heart had stopped on Wickery Bridge. He was an impossibility, a mystery wrapped in a dark coat and the scent of woodsmoke.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across my page.
I froze. The wind had died down completely. Even the crickets had gone silent. I looked up, and for a moment, my heart ceased its rhythm.
Perched on the low branch of a cedar tree just a few feet away was a crow. It was massive, its feathers a midnight black that seemed to absorb what little light remained in the sky. It tilted its head, watching me with a single, unblinking eye. It didn't look like an animal; it looked like a sentinel.
"Go away," I whispered, a sudden shiver racing down my spine.
The crow didn't move. It let out a sharp, guttural caw that echoed through the rows of tombstones, sounding like a mockery of a human laugh. I felt a sudden, irrational spike of fear. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my journal to my chest, and that's when I saw the fog thicken. It rose from the ground in great, swirling plumes, obscuring the path, the trees, and the exit.
"Who's there?" I called out, my voice trembling.
The fog didn't answer, but a figure began to materialize within it. A tall, dark silhouette was moving toward me, silent and graceful. My mind flashed back to the bridge—the hands under the water, the pale face in the moonlight.
"Silas?" I breathed.
The figure stepped out of the mist, and the world seemed to tilt. It wasn't Silas.
It was a man I hadn't seen before, yet his face was a distorted mirror of the one I had met that morning. He was lean, with dark hair and eyes that weren't emerald, but a piercing, icy blue. He wore a smirk that was as sharp as a blade, and there was a dangerous, electric energy radiating from him that made the air feel like it was vibrating.
"Not quite," the man said. His voice was a smooth, melodic tenor, laced with a cruelty that was unmistakable. "But I can see why you'd be confused. We do share a certain... family resemblance."
"Who are you?" I asked, backing away until my heels hit the base of my parents' headstone.
"I'm the brother," he said, taking a step closer. He moved with a fluidity that was terrifying—too fast, too perfect. "The one they don't mention in the polite society of Mystic Ridge. I'm Jax."
Jax Thorne. The name felt like a warning.
"What do you want?" I reached into my bag, my fingers searching for my phone, but my hand was shaking too hard.
Jax stopped just a few feet away. He looked down at the headstone behind me, his expression shifting into something mocking. "Vance. A good name. An old name. You know, Lyra, you have a very interesting face. Silas is quite taken with it. He's always had a penchant for tragic things. He likes to fix what's broken. Me? I prefer to see how much further things can break before they shatter."
"I don't know you," I said, my voice rising. "And I don't know Silas. Leave me alone."
Jax laughed, a cold, dry sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. He leaned in, and I felt the temperature drop, just as it had with Silas. But where Silas felt like the quiet of a winter forest, Jax felt like the bite of a blizzard.
"You think you know him because he saved your pathetic little life," Jax hissed, his blue eyes darkening. "You think those green eyes are full of soul. But Silas is just a hollow shell, Lyra. He's a graveyard masquerading as a man. And if you're smart—which you don't look, considering you're talking to dead people in the dark—you'll run."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Jax reached out, his hand moving so fast I couldn't blink. He caught a strand of my hair, his fingers ice-cold against my neck. I tried to flinch away, but I was frozen, trapped by the intensity of his gaze.
"Because I want to see what happens when the little bird realizes she's flying into a cage," he whispered.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the dark, as sharp as a gunshot.
"Jax. Let her go."
I turned my head. Silas was standing at the edge of the fog. His face was a mask of cold fury, his emerald eyes glowing with a terrifying light. He didn't look like the shy student from History class. He looked like something ancient, something that had climbed out of the very earth he stood upon.
Jax let go of my hair, his smirk returning. "Speak of the devil. Or the saint. I always get you two mixed up."
"Go home, Jax," Silas said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Now."
Jax shrugged, stepping back into the mist. "Fine, fine. I was just getting acquainted with the local talent. She's charming, Silas. A bit damp from the river, but charming."
With a wink that sent a chill through my soul, Jax vanished into the fog as if he had never been there at all.
I stood there, gasping for air, my hand pressed against the cold marble of my father's grave. Silas didn't move toward me. He stayed where he was, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"No," I whispered, the adrenaline finally fading and leaving me weak. "I'm not okay. Who was that? What is happening?"
Silas looked at the spot where Jax had disappeared, a look of profound regret crossing his features. "That was my brother. He... he likes to cause trouble. You shouldn't have been out here so late, Lyra."
"Don't tell me what I should do," I snapped, the fear turning into a sharp, jagged anger. "He knew about the bridge. He knew you saved me. And you're still standing there acting like you don't know what I'm talking about."
Silas walked toward me then, his footsteps silent on the damp grass. He stopped just inches away, and for the first time, I saw the true depth of the sorrow in his eyes. It was a weight so heavy it seemed to pull at the very air around him.
"I didn't want you to be part of this," he said softly.
"Part of what?"
"The shadow," he whispered.
He reached out, as if to touch my cheek, but he stopped himself, his hand trembling in the air between us. "Go home, Lyra. Lock your doors. And please... forget you ever saw me on that bridge."
He turned and walked away, his figure swallowed by the fog before I could even find the words to stop him. I was left alone in the graveyard, the silence returning like a heavy blanket.
I looked down at my journal. The crow was gone, but a single black feather lay across the page where I had written Silas's name. I picked it up, the barbs of the feather sharp against my thumb.
The shadow, I thought, the internal monologue a dark echo of his words. I was already in the shadow. I've been in it since the car hit the water. But now, the shadow has a name. It has two names.
I walked back to my car, my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. As I drove away from the cemetery, I looked in the rearview mirror. For a split second, I saw two figures standing by the gates—one with eyes of emerald, and one with eyes of ice.
They weren't moving. They were just watching me leave.
I drove through the sleeping streets of Mystic Ridge, the town looking like a toy set under the pale moon. Everything looked the same—the clock tower, the diner, the old houses—but I knew the truth now. The town wasn't empty. It was full of things that didn't belong to the sun.
When I got home, I didn't say goodnight to Jenna. I went straight to my room and locked the door. I sat on my bed, clutching the black feather, and waited for the sun to come up. But as the hours passed, I realized that the morning wouldn't change anything.