(Ethan)
He’s late.
The thought wouldn’t stop repeating itself as I sat curled up in the bay window of our family room, staring out into the falling snow.
He’s too late.
The world outside looked muted – softened by thick white flakes drifting lazily from the sky. It would have been beautiful if I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
It had been three hours since my mother last spoke to Evan.
Three hours of silence.
Even with the snowfall, he would’ve called. He always called. If he was running late. If practice went long. If he stopped for food. If he just wanted to complain about traffic.
This wasn’t like him.
My father had been on the phone for over an hour – pacing, dialing number after number, pulling favors through work, calling friends, calling friends of friends. His voice had shifted from irritated to tight. Controlled. Too controlled.
My mom was calling everyone she knew. I could hear her voice cracking from the kitchen.
And I just sat there.
Waiting.
Useless.
Something heavy had settled in my chest hours ago. Not panic. Not yet.
Something worse.
A knowing.
He’s not coming home.
I tried to push the thought away.
It always snows on my birthday, I thought absently, watching the flakes thicken against the darkening sky.
The house felt wrong.
Too quiet in between phone calls. Too hollow.
And then I saw it.
Red and blue lights flickering faintly through the snowfall in the distance.
For a second, my brain refused to understand what I was looking at. The lights blurred through the white curtain of snow, growing brighter. Closer.
Until the sheriff’s car emerged from the storm and rolled slowly to a stop in front of our house.
Everything inside me went cold.
“Mom! Dad!” My voice cracked as I stood abruptly, my hands bracing against the glass. “The police are here.”
My mom was behind me almost instantly. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, trembling so hard I could feel it through my sweatshirt.
The doorbell rang.
The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot.
My dad joined us, his face pale in a way I had never seen before.
“Ethan,” he said quietly, not looking at me. “Go to your room, please.”
His tone wasn’t sharp.
It was final.
I didn’t argue.
I stepped away from the window, my legs feeling unsteady as I moved toward the stairs. Each step creaked beneath my feet, too loud in the silence.
Halfway up, I hesitated.
I don’t know why.
Maybe some part of me needed to hear it.
I heard the front door open.
“Good evening, Officer,” my father said, his voice steady in that way adults think is comforting. “What can we do for you?”
There was a pause.
A terrible, endless pause.
And just before the officer spoke, something inside me tore.
Not physically.
But I felt it.
Like a string pulled too tight finally snapping.
Like a thread that had connected me to something – someone – had been severed without warning.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bentley?” the deputy’s voice came, strained and careful. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but there’s been an accident.”
My mother gasped.
The sound was small.
Then the world stopped moving.
“We found Evan’s car at the bottom of a ravine,” the officer continued gently. “It appears he lost control in the snow and ran through the guardrail.”
Each word felt distant. Muffled. Like I was underwater.
“I’m sorry… but your son didn’t survive the accident.”
Didn’t survive.
Didn’t survive.
The words echoed inside my skull, hollow and unreal.
I turned and walked the rest of the way upstairs.
I don’t remember deciding to move.
I just… did.
I slipped into my bedroom and let the door click shut behind me.
A second later, my mother’s scream tore through the house.
It wasn’t human.
It was raw and broken and full of something that shouldn’t exist.
I collapsed onto my bed and buried my face into my pillow as the sound of her grief filled every corner of the house. It crawled under my skin. It wrapped around my ribs.
I pulled the blankets over my head to muffle my own sobs as they forced their way out.
They came hard.
Violent.
My body shook with each one.
But I pressed my face deeper into the mattress so my parents wouldn’t hear me.
They didn’t need my grief.
They had their own.
I tasted salt and fabric and something metallic at the back of my throat.
My brother.
My hero.
The one who was supposed to teach me how to drive better. Who was supposed to graduate. Who was supposed to be here.
Gone.
And I hadn’t even said goodbye.
The snow kept falling outside.
And somewhere deep inside me, that snapped thread kept unraveling.
The house was silent when I awoke several hours later. I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep. My throat was raw and dry from the crying, and it forced me down to the kitchen to get a drink of water. The only light in the kitchen was the dim yellow glow coming from above the sink, and I could see the silhouette of my mother sitting at the table with a bottle of wine in front of her. I grabbed a cup from the cabinet and filled it up at the sink, while my mother stared blankly at the wall across from her with puffy eyes. Setting it down, I walked to her side. That’s when I noticed that the bottle was empty, and her glass was nearly empty, as well.
“I love you, mom.” I told her in a soft voice.
“I love you too, Ethan,” she answered with a rasp in her voice. Then, she looked up at me and patted my hand. “You look just like your brother.”
I was shaken by her words but I refused to let it show. Evan and I knew that I looked like him, it was something we were told by everyone. Everyone except our parents. They wanted us to grow up with as much individuality as possible. This was the first time my mother had spoken these words to me, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I’m sorry that you have to go through this, Ethan,” she continued in a quiet voice. I could smell the alcohol on her breath. I turned my head away so she wouldn’t see the tear rolling down my cheek.
“I know, mom.” I kept my response as short as possible. If I broke down in front of her, she might shatter completely. The lump in my throat was beginning to get harder to ignore with every passing second.
“Try to get some more sleep, Ethan,” my mom instructed. “It’s going to be rough around here for a few days.”
“I love you, mom,” I said before I kissed her on the cheek, and made my way to the bottom of the stairs.
My mother had already returned to her distant stare, not even recognizing that I was still in the room with her. Not able to look at her haunted expression any longer, I ran up the stairs to the second floor of our house. I passed by my own bedroom and stopped outside of Evan’s room. His bed was still made from this morning and it looked like he would be home at any minute. He had a coat hanging over the back of a chair, and his computer’s screen saver was dancing across the monitor.
I hesitantly stepped into Evan’s room – waiting for him to chide me for not knocking before realizing I would never hear his voice again.
It felt wrong – like the room knew he wasn’t coming back.
I was drawn to his bed where I collapsed, and buried my face to muffle the sobs that were waiting to escape from my body. My senses were flooded with the smell of Evan’s sweat, body spray, shampoo, and deodorant as the fabric of his pillow clouded my vision. I pulled his covers over my body to ward off the chill that had fallen over the house, and let my tears of sadness and grief lull me to the land of nightmares.
I stood alone in a narrow alley swallowed by fog so thick it felt alive.
Something was breathing.
Slow. Measured. Patient.
The sound circled me – not hunting, but waiting.
A shape moved within the mist.
A massive wolf stepped forward, its fur dark and heavy, its yellow eyes burning like twin lanterns in the gloom. Snow clung to its back, but it did not melt.
It did not rush me.
It only watched.
My body refused to move. My thoughts felt distant, muffled – like they no longer fully belonged to me.
The wolf lowered itself, muscles coiling.
Behind it, faintly, I heard whispering.
A rhythm.
Counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
The wolf lunged…
And stopped midair.
Its body convulsed violently, twisting as if seized by invisible hands. A snarl ripped from its throat, warping into something almost human.
Bones cracked.
Fur receded like smoke being pulled back into skin.
Its spine snapped straight with a sickening series of pops.
The paws split and lengthened into hands.
The yellow in its eyes flickered.
Shifted.
Silver bled into them.
When the creature landed, the wolf was gone.
A man stood in its place.
Naked.
Unashamed.
Steam curled from his pale skin in the cold fog. Broad shoulders. Lean muscle. Water-dark hair falling across sharp features. Faint scars traced across his ribs and collarbone like stories carved into flesh.
His eyes were silver.
Not gray.
Not white.
Silver – reflective and unnatural.
He walked toward me slowly.
Every step deliberate.
I should have looked away.
I didn’t.
My fear tangled with something else – something warm and humiliating and deeply human. My breath caught for a reason that had nothing to do with danger. My pulse thundered harder, and not entirely from terror.
His mouth curved slightly.
He noticed.
“Even now,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, echoing strangely in the alley. “You see.”
Heat crept up my neck.
The fog coiled around his ankles.
“You feel it,” he continued. “The thread.”
Something tightened inside my chest.
That invisible pull again.
“You were not meant to follow,” he said softly. “You were meant to stand in the center.”
The mist stirred behind him.
Shapes flickered within it.
Not random.
Arranged.
I could almost count them.
“He will walk where others burn,” the silver-eyed man whispered.
Snow drifted through the alley though there was no sky above us.
It landed on his shoulders.
It did not melt.
“Thirteen will rise by his hand.”
The shadows behind him straightened.
Waiting.
“Six will fear what he becomes.”
His gaze locked onto mine.
“And the seventh…”
His hand lifted, hovering inches from my chest.
“…will choose.”
The word pressed into my skull like it belonged there.
Choose.
“Blood will bind what death could not,” he finished.
My knees buckled. I didn’t remember falling, but I was on the ground, staring up at him – at the silver eyes, the carved lines of his body, the cold beauty of something not human and not entirely monstrous.
“He comes,” the man whispered.
His body snapped backward violently.
Yanked into the fog as if claimed by something stronger.
The silver in his eyes flashed wide once before darkness swallowed him whole.
The alley shifted.
The air grew colder.
Heavier.
The fog parted.
Evan stepped forward.
Alive.
Whole.
Snow settled in his dark hair and along his shoulders.
It did not melt.
His eyes burned red.
Not reflecting.
Creating light.
The thirteen shadows straightened.
Not for the silver-eyed man.
For him.
Relief crashed into me so violently it hurt.
“Evan,” I breathed.
He did not answer.
He did not blink.
He looked at me the way the other man had – not with hunger.
With recognition.
The thread inside my chest pulled tight.
Claimed.
“Not yet,” Evan said softly.
Or maybe I only felt the words.
His hand lifted slightly.
Not to save me.
To choose me.
The shadows moved closer.
The red in his eyes brightened.
And everything went black.
I woke in a cold sweat with sunlight pouring through the window.
For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.
Then the smell hit me – Evan’s shampoo, his body spray – and I remembered.
I had fallen asleep in his room.
The wolf.
The silver-eyed man.
Evan with red eyes.
Just a nightmare.
I forced myself to breathe.
Outside, the snow had stopped sometime during the night. The world was buried beneath a sheet of blinding white. Sunlight bounced off it so harshly I had to squint.
For a strange second, I thought about the snow in my dream.
It hadn’t melted.
I shook the thought away.
I smelled terrible.
I made Evan’s bed carefully, smoothing the covers like he might come back and complain if I didn’t, then went to my own room for clean clothes.
The bathroom was worse.
His towel still hung on the rack.
His toothbrush still leaned against the sink.
Everything frozen exactly where he had left it.
It felt wrong that the world could move forward when his things hadn’t.
I turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm, staring at his reflection in the mirror beside mine – the same jawline, the same dark hair.
“You can do this, Ethan,” I whispered. “Evan would want you to keep going.”
The shower was quick. Mechanical. Wash. Rinse. Breathe.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, the pressure in my chest eased slightly. That room held too much of him.
My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.
The house was empty.
I texted my parents. My mom replied almost instantly: Stay in the house. There’s new cereal in the pantry.
New cereal.
Like that mattered.
I poured a bowl anyway and ate standing at the counter. The crunch echoed too loudly in the quiet kitchen. When I finished, I rinsed the bowl and placed it in the dishwasher with unnecessary care.
Then I returned to the front window.
Snow.
It looked peaceful.
It looked harmless.
I hated it.
Evan and I used to beg for snow days. We’d build forts. Start snowball fights. He’d tackle me into drifts and pretend I stood a chance.
He was the kind of big brother kids wished for.
He never acted embarrassed of me.
He’d dragged me to basketball practices and convinced his coach to let me help with drills. I’d felt like part of something bigger.
Part of his world.
And now…
Gone.
Because of snow.
My throat tightened. I wiped at my face quickly.
I will never love snow again.
The thought settled into something solid and cold inside me.
I left the window and collapsed onto the couch instead. I turned on a random movie – some romance about a girl falling for a vampire.
Of all things.
I almost laughed.
Instead, I watched without really seeing it.
My mind drifted to Tatum.
I wanted to call him.
I always did when things felt too big.
But Dad had asked me not to.
Tatum was in some “special facility” for his cancer treatment. I wasn’t allowed to visit. No one would tell me how bad it was.
After two months of pushing for answers, I stopped asking.
Uncle Mason said it was complicated.
I trusted him.
I had to.
Still… something about it felt wrong.
Like a door had been closed quietly in my face.
Eventually, I told myself.
Eventually I’ll see him again.
The sunlight shifted slightly across the snow outside.
And for just a second…
I could have sworn I felt that strange tightening in my chest again.
Like a thread pulling.
The living room was growing dark when I awoke some time later. My mom was watching television from her recliner with the volume turned down, and I could hear my father talking on his phone in the kitchen. My mother had a box of tissues next to her chair, and there was a bottle of wine in her hand. She didn’t even look in my direction as I slid off of the couch and went out to the kitchen.
The house felt different at night now. Not peaceful. Not quiet in a comforting way. Just hollow. Like something essential had been scooped out of it.
My dad had just ended his call and quickly walked over to give me a hug.
“I love you, Ethan.” He reminded me. “No matter what.”
His arms wrapped around me tighter than usual. Like he was afraid if he didn’t hold on hard enough, I might disappear too.
“I know, Dad,” I whispered, trying to keep the knot in my throat from choking me up. “I love you, too.” I hesitated before I asked my next question. “Is Mom going to be alright?”
My dad didn’t lie to me when he answered.
“I don’t know, son.” His voice sounded hoarse, and he glanced toward the living room for a brief moment. “It’s going to be rough around here for a little while, Ethan. I promise that I will do everything within my power during this time to make sure that you’re still being taken care of. I’m not trying to negate your grief, either. Evan was your other half. You boys were twins that were separated by two years.” He smiled faintly and pulled me close again. “If you need to talk, don’t hesitate to let me know, Ethan.”
Evan was your other half.
The words lodged deep in my chest. Because that was exactly what it felt like. Like someone had cut me down the middle and taken the better part with them.
“I won’t,” I replied. “I promise. Just make sure Mom is okay.”
“I’ll do my best, son.” He promised.
I nodded and went up to my room.
After an hour of playing a new game on my computer, I realized I hadn’t processed a single thing that had happened on the screen. My character had died three times and I hadn’t even cared. The controller felt heavy in my hands. Everything did lately.
I shut the game off.
Silence rushed back in.
That was the worst part. Silence. Evan had always filled it – music blasting from his room, the sound of a basketball hitting pavement in the driveway, his laugh echoing down the hallway. Even when we weren’t talking, he was there. A presence. A constant.
Now the house felt like it was holding its breath.
I decided I had had enough for one day and went to lay down. All I could do was toss and turn before deciding to try Evan’s bed again.
I hesitated at his door.
The handle felt colder than it should have.
The weight of his death hit me again as I stepped inside. His room still smelled like him – clean soap and laundry detergent. His shoes were still lined up near the closet. His basketball sat in the corner like it was waiting for him to come back and grab it.
It was like the world hadn’t gotten the message that he was gone.
The lump in my throat ached as I crossed the floor to his bed. I sat down slowly, afraid that if I moved too fast something would shatter — or maybe I would.
I picked up his pillow and pressed it to my face.
It still smelled like him.
That was what broke me.
A sob tore out of my chest, ugly and raw. I buried my face in Evan’s pillow to muffle the sound of it. My brother was gone. There wouldn’t be any more snow days. No more inside jokes. No more late-night talks about nothing and everything.
No more Evan.
And there was still a chance that I was going to lose Tatum, too.
The thought twisted my stomach. It felt like the world was peeling people away from me one by one, and I was powerless to stop it. My mother was slipping somewhere I couldn’t reach. My father looked ten years older overnight. And I was just… here. Standing in the wreckage.
The sobs eventually quieted into shaky breaths.
How much more can I deal with before I break?
The thought lingered in the silence.
You always make the right choices.
My father had said that to me more than once growing up. Usually after I’d done something responsible. Something careful. Something safe. He said it like he trusted me to choose well – even when things were hard.
I swallowed hard.
What if I didn’t want to make the right choices?
What if I didn’t even know what the right choice was?
My mind betrayed me then – drifting back to the dream.
To the wolf.
To the way its bones had cracked and reformed. Fur disappearing. Muscle stretching and reshaping. The silver eyes never leaving mine as it became something else.
Someone else.
My chest tightened for a completely different reason.
He had been powerful. Broad shoulders. Defined muscle. Bare skin catching the dim light. When he’d started walking toward me, something inside me hadn’t just been afraid.
It had been aware.
And that awareness sent heat creeping up my neck even now.
I squeezed my eyes shut, embarrassed even though I was alone.
I’d known I was gay for years. Evan had known, too. He’d never made it weird. Never made it a big announcement. He’d just accepted it. Teased me about crushes like any normal brother would. Protected me when anyone else tried to make it a problem.
He made me feel normal.
But the dream hadn’t felt normal.
The man’s silver eyes had locked onto mine – knowing. Intent.
You will choose.
That was what it had felt like.
Not an attack. Not random.
A choice.
You always make the right choices.
The words twisted differently now.
What if the right choice wasn’t the safe one?
What if the right choice changed me into something else entirely?
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with grief.
The world felt like it was shifting beneath my feet, like something unseen was waiting for me to decide who I was going to be.
How much more can I deal with before I break?
And when the moment comes…
Will I really make the right choice?
Our house was chaos the following day as news of Evan’s death spread through the community.
Cars lined the street. The doorbell never stopped ringing. Voices filled every corner of the house – hushed, sympathetic, invasive. The scent of casseroles and flowers mixed in the air until it made my stomach turn.
I tried to be polite. Tried to nod at the right moments. Tried to say thank you when people told me they were sorry for my loss.
But I couldn’t handle the looks.
The pity.
The way people tilted their heads when they spoke to me like I might shatter.
Eventually it became too much.
I slipped away toward the garage, hoping for quiet, but stopped when I saw the side door was already open.
I stepped closer.
My father’s voice drifted out into the driveway.
“How is he doing?” he asked, his tone low and concerned. “Still?”
He was on his cellphone.
I hesitated, uncomfortable with the idea of eavesdropping, and was about to turn away when his next sentence made me freeze.
“Was that body delivered to the funeral home?”
My heart skipped.
My father paused.
“Good. Once it’s cremated, I’ll finish the plans for the funeral.”
Cremated?
My mind scrambled. Evan’s funeral hadn’t even been officially announced yet. Why was he talking about it like this? And why did it sound… procedural?
My father went quiet again, listening.
“No,” he said after a moment. “They don’t suspect anything.”
My stomach dropped.
They don’t suspect anything?
Suspect what?
A thousand terrible possibilities rushed through my mind at once. Was there something about Evan’s accident they hadn’t told me? Something with the snow? With the car?
“How’s he doing anyway?” my father continued.
He.
My thoughts jumped to Tatum.
“That seems a bit long compared to the others, Mason.”
Mason.
Uncle Mason.
Relief flickered through me. They had to be talking about Tatum’s treatments. Something medical. That was the only thing that made sense. The only explanation that didn’t spiral into something darker.
I started to turn away.
“No, Mason,” my father said sharply.
I stopped again.
“He mustn’t know I’ve been involved. Not until he gets over being separated from Ethan… or he figures it out on his own.”
My blood ran cold.
Separated from Ethan?
Who?
“You know the rules of the Prophecy.”
The word hit me like a physical shove.
Prophecy.
For a second, I thought I’d misheard him.
Prophecy?
This wasn’t a church conversation. This wasn’t metaphorical. The way he said it – quiet, deliberate – made it sound like a rulebook. Like something official. Like something dangerous.
My name.
He’d said my name.
I stood there in the driveway, heart pounding so loudly I was sure he would hear it through the garage walls.
He mustn’t know I’ve been involved.
Involved in what?
My thoughts raced wildly for something logical to cling to.
My dad worked government contracts sometimes. Security stuff. Consulting. He’d traveled when I was younger. He’d always been vague about details.
CIA, I decided suddenly.
That had to be it.
Some classified thing. Some weird government protocol. Maybe “Prophecy” was a code name. Government agencies loved dramatic names. That made sense. That was normal. That was explainable.
Right?
But the words echoed anyway.
He mustn’t know.
Separated from Ethan.
The rules of the Prophecy.
A chill crept under my skin, slow and deliberate.
Separated from me.
Like Evan.
My chest tightened painfully.
No.
That was insane.
This was grief talking. My imagination running wild. I was exhausted. Overstimulated. Half-paranoid from lack of sleep and too many casseroles.
I forced myself to move.
I stepped back quietly, then turned and walked toward the house before my father could see me standing there.
My head felt heavy, buzzing.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Evan was gone.
Tatum was dying.
My father was involved in something secret.
And somehow…
It involved me.
I climbed the stairs to my room in a daze. The noise from downstairs faded into a dull hum behind my door.
I didn’t even bother pulling the blanket over myself when I collapsed onto the bed.
Prophecy.
The word drifted through my thoughts as sleep dragged me under.
You always make the right choices.
The memory of my father’s voice twisted uneasily with the new one in my head.
The rules of the Prophecy.
I didn’t know which scared me more.
That there was a prophecy.
Or that it had something to do with me.
“Dad?”
I nudged my father lightly on the shoulder and held out the tie to him. My hands felt clumsy, like they didn’t belong to me.
“Could you help me with this?”
My father smiled – the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes – and took the tie from me.
“Of course.”
He stepped closer, looping the fabric around my neck with practiced hands. I watched his fingers work, steady and precise. They didn’t look like the hands of someone who had lost a son.
“Are you okay, Ethan?” he asked softly as he adjusted the knot.
The question lingered between us.
Was I okay?
Was he?
Was any of this okay?
“I think so,” I said with a small shrug. “I’m holding together, at least.”
Holding together…
Like something cracked but not shattered yet.
My father smoothed the front of my shirt, then rested his hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently.
“Everything is going to be okay, Ethan,” he promised. “I know everything seems crazy and confusing right now, but we will get through this. We just need to make sure that we’re communicating with each other, is all. If you need to talk, just ask. Okay?”
Communicating.
The word snagged in my mind.
You know the rules of the Prophecy.
He mustn’t know I’ve been involved.
My stomach tightened.
“Yeah, Dad,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “Okay.”
For a second, I wondered if he could see it – the questions behind my eyes. If he could tell I’d heard him in the garage.
If he knew I knew something.
He pulled me into a hug.
His embrace was firm, almost desperate. I hesitated only a fraction of a second before hugging him back.
He felt solid.
Real.
Not secretive. Not dangerous. Just my dad.
“It’s time to go, son. Meet me at the car while I go get your mother,” he instructed quietly before heading upstairs.
I watched him disappear down the hallway.
The house felt heavier than it had the day before. Quieter, somehow, despite the movement. Like it was bracing for something.
I stepped outside into the cold.
The icy air burned my lungs as I breathed deeply, trying to steady myself. Snow crunched under my shoes. The sky was pale and unforgivingly clear.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the world that had kept moving without Evan in it.
How was that possible?
I slid into the backseat of the already running car and closed the door softly. The engine hummed beneath me.
The seat beside me was empty.
It shouldn’t have been.
Evan should have been there – teasing me about my tie, nudging my shoulder, making some inappropriate joke about how many girls were going to cry over him today.
My chest tightened painfully.
Instead, there was only silence.
You always make the right choices.
My father’s voice echoed faintly in my head.
The rules of the Prophecy.
A chill crawled down my spine, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the thought.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the cool window glass and shut my eyes.
‘I love you, Evan,’ I thought, the words sharp and bitter in my chest.
And if there’s something I’m supposed to do…
I just hope I choose right.
My hands were trembling as I entered the gymnasium and saw that the bleachers were crowded with students and teachers. The low hum of whispered conversations echoed off the high ceiling. Sneakers squeaked against polished wood. Someone was crying softly near the back.
Several rows of chairs had been arranged on the basketball court, and my father gently guided my mother toward the front row reserved for close family.
Then I saw it.
I froze.
A silver urn sat on a white marble pedestal at the very center of the court. Flowers surrounded it in thick, suffocating layers. Cards, wreaths, framed photos of Evan smiling – alive – propped carefully around the small table.
And there it was.
All that remained of my brother.
Ashes and memories.
The gym suddenly felt too small. Too bright.
A lump formed in my throat, but I fought the tears. I could feel eyes on me – students, teachers, parents – watching the grieving little brother. Waiting for me to fall apart.
But I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t tear my gaze away from that urn.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. My palms were slick with sweat. Every memory of Evan crashed through my mind at once – snow days, late-night talks, basketball practice, him shoving me playfully in the hallway.
I wanted to scream at the fucking urn.
I wanted to tell Evan he was stupid for not letting Dad give him a ride home.
Most of all, I wanted to cry.
My brother was right there – and I couldn’t even touch him. I would never look at his face again. Never hear him call my name from down the hallway. Never feel his hand grip my shoulder when I needed strength.
I would never have an older brother again.
Nothing made sense.
Why did God take him?
Why did Evan have to fucking die?
His body had been burned so badly in the accident that the coroner struggled to get a dental impression.
The memory made bile rise in my throat.
My father promised me Evan died before the fire. That he didn’t feel anything.
But I knew he still died alone.
In the cold.
The thought hollowed me out.
“Good afternoon, Ethan.”
The voice cut cleanly through my spiraling thoughts.
I turned sharply.
Mr. Hunter stood beside me, his posture straight, his expression composed. His deep green eyes studied me carefully – not with pity, but with something else.
Assessment.
He was taller up close. Broader. His presence felt… solid. Grounded.
Safe.
“I… um, hey, Mr. Hunter,” I managed.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the urn before returning to me.
“I know this has been very rough for you,” he said quietly. “But I was hoping I could borrow you for just a moment before the ceremony begins.”
There was something deliberate in the way he spoke. Measured.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course, sir.”
He guided me toward the side of the gym where the noise dimmed and we stood partially hidden behind folded bleachers.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I have an offer for you, Ethan,” he said plainly.
That was one thing I respected about him. He never danced around things.
“An offer?”
“Yes.” A small smile touched his mouth. “I’d like to offer you Evan’s seat in my Mythology class.”
My stomach flipped.
“Mythology?”
“I spoke with Principal Montgomery. He’s agreed to make an exception.”
“For me?” My voice cracked slightly. “Why?”
Mr. Hunter chuckled softly.
“You deserve it, Ethan. I’ve also spoken with your father. He believes it would be… beneficial.”
Beneficial.
The word lingered strangely.
“But there are juniors and seniors-”
“You are the most deserving,” he interrupted gently. “In all my years teaching, I’ve rarely encountered minds like yours. Or your brother’s. You absorb information quickly. You lead without realizing it.”
Lead.
The word sent a strange shiver down my spine.
“And this is my final year teaching Mythology,” he continued. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Something about that phrasing made my pulse jump.
“When do we meet?” I heard myself ask.
His smile deepened slightly – not predatory, not cruel – but knowing.
“Wednesday after school,” he replied. “I’ll see you then, Mr. Bentley.”
The way he said my last name felt intentional.
Almost ceremonial.
For a brief second – just a flicker – I thought I saw something in his eyes shift.
A flash.
Not green.
Fire.
I blinked.
It was gone.
He turned and walked away, merging easily into the crowd.
My heart was still racing.
Mythology.
Prophecy.
The rules.
I swallowed hard.
Principal Montgomery was stepping up to the podium near the urn. The gym slowly quieted.
It was time to take my seat.
Time to say goodbye.
For the last time.
I forced my legs to move and walked toward my parents.
Toward the urn.
Toward the ashes.
And somewhere deep inside me, beneath the grief and anger and confusion…
Something felt like it was just beginning.
Our house was too full.
Too many voices. Too many footsteps. Too many soft, careful looks that followed me every time I moved. People spoke in hushed tones like Evan might still be sleeping upstairs. Like grief was something fragile that might shatter if handled too loudly.
I couldn’t breathe in it.
So I did what any normal teenager would do.
I ran.
I slipped out of the kitchen and jogged up the back staircase, taking the steps two at a time like I used to when Evan and I would race. My chest tightened at the thought, but I kept moving. I didn’t stop until I reached the top of the stairs.
And then I froze.
Jenna Holbrook was standing in Evan’s doorway.
She wasn’t inside the room. She just stood there, one shoulder pressed lightly against the frame, staring in like she was afraid to cross some invisible line. The hallway light cast shadows across her face, making her look older somehow. Smaller, too.
Her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but loose strands had fallen free, clinging to her damp cheeks. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her lips were pressed together like she was trying to hold something in.
Jenna and Evan had been best friends since they were ten. That was all they had ever been.
Evan used to tell me he’d had a crush on her once. Said he got over it when he realized she was the one person who never left – no matter how annoying he got, no matter how stupid his ideas were. He said some people were meant to stay.
She hadn’t moved.
“Hi, Jenna,” I said softly.
My voice sounded wrong in the quiet hallway. Too loud. Too alive.
She turned slowly, like she’d forgotten other people still existed. When she saw me, her expression cracked just slightly.
“Hey,” she whispered.
“Are you okay?”
It was a stupid question. We both knew that.
She glanced back into Evan’s room.
His desk still cluttered. His jacket still hanging on the back of his chair like he might walk in and grab it at any second. The blue light blinking at the bottom of his monitor as his computer waited for him to wake it up from its hibernation.
“I keep thinking he’s just not here right now,” she said quietly. “Like he’s at practice. Or out with his other friends. And if I wait long enough, he’ll come back upstairs and yell at me for being dramatic.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
My throat tightened.
“I should’ve made him ride home with me,” she added, barely audible. “I didn’t even consider it. How are you holding up, Ethan?”
A sharp, painful silence filled the space between us.
“As good as I can be, I guess,” I said finally. It felt like a lie. It felt like drowning.
She didn’t respond with words.
She just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me.
For a second, I stiffened. I hadn’t let anyone hold me since it happened. I hadn’t let myself fall apart. I’d been too busy being “strong.” Too busy watching my parents break.
But Jenna held on like she wasn’t afraid of the mess.
And something inside me gave out.
The sob tore out of my chest before I could stop it. It was ugly. Loud. It hurt. I clutched onto her like I might disappear if I didn’t.
She cried too – quiet at first, then shaking.
We slid down to the floor without meaning to, backs against the hallway wall outside Evan’s door. The door stayed open behind us, his room breathing silence into the space.
We talked in fragments.
About the time he tried to skateboard down the front steps and chipped his tooth.
About how he used to swear raccoons were secretly organizing against humanity.
About how he always walked her home, even when she told him she didn’t need it.
The memories felt sharp. Like glass.
I hated that this was all we had left.
I don’t know how long we sat there before my father’s voice broke through the quiet.
“Ethan?”
I hadn’t even heard him come upstairs.
He took in the scene – the red eyes, the tear-streaked faces, the open bedroom door – and something in his expression softened and cracked at the same time.
“Thank you for coming today, Jenna,” he said gently, helping her to her feet.
“You’re always welcome here.”
Always.
The word felt heavy.
“Thank you, Mr. Bentley,” she said.
She hugged him, then turned to me.
“I’ll see you Monday.”
Monday.
The world just… continuing.
“Yeah,” I said. “See you.”
She walked down the stairs, and I felt the loss all over again.
My father placed his arm around my shoulders. His grip was firm, grounding.
“Your mother and I are ordering pizza,” he said quietly as we headed downstairs. “What do you want on yours?”
The normalcy of the question almost broke me.
“The usual,” I answered.
I hesitated before asking, “So… you’re okay with me taking the Mythology class?”
He looked at me for a second longer than usual.
“Absolutely, Ethan,” he said. “Your mother and I talked it through. We’ll make sure you’re never without a ride.”
Never without a ride.
Never alone.
He squeezed my shoulder before guiding me toward the living room.
My mom was sitting on the sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she was holding herself together by force. When she saw me, she immediately pulled me against her side.
Like she was afraid I might vanish too.
“I love you, Ethan,” she whispered against my hair.
I closed my eyes.
“I love you too, Mom.”
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
I told myself it was the house settling.
But for a moment – just a moment – I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still standing in Evan’s doorway.
Watching.
Chapter 3