The sky is a slab of grey, pressed low against the roof like it wants to crush us. The clouds don't move. The light is wrong — thin, not bright, like someone scraped the sun down to its bones. I sit at the kitchen table and stare at my reflection in the side of the teapot. It's warped, my face stretched long and narrow, my mouth a crooked line.
Davis pours hot water into two chipped cups. The steam curls between us like smoke. He puts a spoonful of honey into one of them and slides it toward me. I don't touch it.
"You should eat," he says. It is not a command, and it is not quite a request either.
"I'm not hungry."
He doesn't argue. That's one thing I'll give him — he doesn't push like Carina does. He waits. He watches. But he hasn't learned what I have: watching isn't the same as seeing. Moknowople never learn the difference.
I press my fingers against the ceramic. The heat seeps into my skin like a warning. I imagine it's poison and wonder what kind it would be — sweet and slow like before, or sharp, the way Carina's smile feels now. My lips part, but I don't drink. I know better.
The door creaks open behind us. I don't turn, but I know it's her. Carina moves like someone who expects the floor to love her. Light steps, careful but not secretive. She smells like rosemary and soap. The scent makes my throat itch.
"Morning," she says.
Neither of us answers.
She walks past me and takes the other cup. Drinks mine without hesitation. I watch her lips touch the rim. She meets my gaze over the top and raises one eyebrow like she's daring me to say something.
"I made bread," she says, motioning to the loaf on the counter. "Still warm."
Davis stands and slices it in silence. I keep my hands in my lap.
Carina doesn't leave. She leans against the doorframe and starts braiding her hair. It used to be longer. I remember it brushing the backs of her knees when we played in the orchard, before I knew what betrayal smelled like. Before I tasted it in her tea.
"What are you doing today?" she asks me.
I shrug.
"You should get some sun. You look pale."
"I like being pale."
She laughs, but it doesn't sound real. Nothing about her ever does.
She leaves eventually, humming under her breath. That same lullaby from before. The one I used to love. The one she poisoned.
Davis watches me like I might shatter. I don't. I'm already broken in all the useful ways.
I go outside.
The garden is still soggy from last night's storm. Mud clings to my boots as I walk the edge of the rosemary bed. I find a patch of violets blooming between the cracks in the flagstone. They're small, but fierce, clawing their way up through broken stone and shadow. I crouch down and run my fingers over their petals.
"You made it," I whisper.
The wind moves through the trees. The swing creaks once and falls still. I don't look at it.
Instead, I walk to the greenhouse. The door groans on its hinges. Glass crunches underfoot where one of the panels finally gave in to wind and time. The air inside is damp, thick with the scent of mildew and earth. I take the broom I left propped against the wall and sweep the broken shards into a pile.
I'm careful. I wear gloves. I know how easy it is to bleed.
Once it's clean enough to move, I kneel and begin arranging the pots I salvaged from behind the shed. Most are cracked. A few are still whole. I line them up in rows. I fill one with dirt and plant a single sprig of mint.
Michael used to say it kept bad dreams away.
He was wrong, but it helps the place smell better.
I don't know how long I'll spend in the greenhouse. Time here is soft — it stretches or snaps depending on how tightly I hold it. Eventually, I hear footsteps behind me. I don't turn.
"It's going to rain again," Davis says.
"Let it."
He waits, like he always does, until I finish pressing the dirt down around the mint. Then he crouches beside me and hands me a small, folded cloth. Inside is a handful of seeds — sunflower, by the look of them.
"I found these in the pantry," he says. "Thought you might want them."
I look at the seeds. I think about the frost that killed the last ones. I think about Carina watching me cry over them. I think about how she held my hand and said they'd grow again, that things always came back.
She lied.
But I nod and take them.
Davis smiles like he's proud of something, but I don't know what.
Later, while they eat lunch, I go to the attic.
The wardrobe still smells like dust and old wood. I open the door and step inside. I bring a notebook with me this time — one I found in Michael's old room. The pages are yellowed, but blank.
I write down everything I know:
Carina lied about the tea.
Carina hums lullabies when she wants something.
Davis leaves the cellar door open when he thinks no one notices.
Michael used to draw the circle mark.
Someone else drew the spiral.
The spiral hums.
I stare at that last sentence. It sounds mad. I scratch it out.
Then I write:
There are no ghosts. Only survivors.
I tear that page out and fold it into a tiny square. I hide it under the floorboard beside the wardrobe. Next to one of the sharpened sticks.
My hands shake as I close the notebook.
When I come down from the attic, the light in the hallway is strange — orange, flickering. I follow it to the kitchen. A candle's been knocked over. Wax pools on the floor near the stove.
Carina crouches nearby with a rag, mopping it up. She looks up at me, eyes wide, innocent.
"It just slipped," she says. "No harm done."
I don't answer. I take another candle from the drawer, light it, and set it on the table.
"Next time," I say, "use the lantern."
She nods like she's learned something. I don't believe her.
That night, I didn't sleep.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. The shadows move wrong. Not fast, not slow — just off. Like someone walking backward through water.
I listen for the sounds I know: the creak of Davis's door, the sigh of wind under the eaves, the shift of the floorboards as the house breathes.
At three in the morning, I hear something new.
A knock. Soft. On the back door.
I slide out of bed without making a sound. My feet find the path I've memorized — between the rug and the loose board, past the coat rack that always squeaks. I make it to the top of the stairs and crouch, listening.
The knock comes again. Slower this time. Measured.
Davis opens the door.
I can't see who's there. Just hear the low murmur of voices. I lean forward, just enough to catch a word.
"…didn't expect her to remember…"
The rest is swallowed by the wind.
I don't breathe. I don't blink.
The door closes. Footsteps fade. Silence swells back in.
I go back to bed and lie awake until dawn.
The next morning, Davis is gone.
He left a note: Gone to town. Be back by nightfall.
Carina doesn't seem surprised. She makes porridge and hums while she stirs. I sit at the table and pretend to eat.
"I could braid your hair," she says after a while. "If you want."
"No."
She doesn't press. She just smiles like she's still seven and sweet and nothing ever happened. I want to throw the bowl at her face. Instead, I carry it to the sink and dump it quietly.
Outside, the garden waits. I spent the day planting the sunflowers. One by one. Carefully. As if they might remember me.
When the sun begins to set, I go back inside. Davis isn't home yet. Carina lights candles and sets the table for three. She doesn't say why.
I sit across from her and wait.
We don't eat. We just listen.
The clock ticks louder than usual. The wind howls once and goes still.
When the door finally opens, it's not Davis.
It's a man I've never seen. Tall. Rough coat. Boots are muddy from travel. His eyes flick across the room and land on me.
"You must be the youngest," he says.
Carina smiles too widely. "This is Azriel."
"Pretty name," the man says. "Old name."
I don't answer. I stand slowly and move toward the hallway.
"Don't be rude," Carina chides, but her voice is too sweet. Too smooth.
The man steps aside, letting me pass. His eyes are dark. Curious.
I go to my room. Lock the door. Slide the dresser in front of it.
Then I pull the floorboard loose and take out the stick. It's small. Not sharp enough to kill, but enough to hurt.
Enough to remind someone that I am not helpless.
I crouch by the window and watch the man through the glass.
He talks with Carina like they're old friends. She laughs. He hands her something — a folded slip of paper.
I watch her mouth move. I watch her eyes flick toward my window.
She knows I'm watching.
Good.
This time, I watched everything.
Later, after he leaves, Davis returns. He looks tired. His hands shake.
"There was a delay," he says.
Carina doesn't mention the man. Neither does Davis.
But I saw them exchange a look.
I saw Davis reach for the candle, then stop. Like he remembered something. His fingers hovered just above the wick, paused in midair as if the flame might bite him. A flicker passed over his face — not fear, not guilt, but something sharper. Recognition. The kind that doesn't belong to boys his age. The kind that belongs to people who've seen something they shouldn't have.
He pulled his hand back and tucked it into his pocket, like the candle had never been there. Like the moment hadn't happened. But I saw it. I felt it, like a tremor in the ground just before it splits open.
Carina noticed too. Her eyes tracked his movement, and she smiled into her cup. That smile again — closed-lipped and poisonous. Like she already knew he wouldn't light it. Like she'd counted on it. Her hand grazed his wrist when she passed him a bowl of soup, and he didn't flinch.
But he didn't look at her either.
He sat down slowly, spooned broth into his mouth without tasting it, and kept his eyes on the table. I watched the tendons in his hand twitch with every bite, like his body wanted to run, but he was keeping it trapped. There was something between them now. A secret they shared. Something I wasn't supposed to see.
But I did see.
The candle sat there between them, unlit, like a dare. Like a warning.
And I knew. Something had shifted.
Davis had stopped being a boy trying to help me.
He had started choosing a side.
And it wasn't mine.