SPECTRAL.

† F I F T E E N †

     THE MORNING AFTER FELT LIKE A QUIET MIRACLE STITCHED INTO THE FABRIC OF MY CHEST. I remember opening my eyes to that borrowed room in the east wing and for a split second, my mind refused to believe it was daylight. It seemed impossible that the night had ended, that I had somehow crawled out of its clutches alive. The terror had been so absolute, so all-encompassing, that I had convinced myself I wouldn't live to see another sunrise. And yet there it was, pouring through the heavy drapes in streaks of gold, softening the oil painting of the stern-faced man, loosening the grip of shadows from the corners of the room.

     For the first time in what felt like forever, I exhaled without shaking. A piece of me I hadn't realized was clenched finally let go. The light gave me something I hadn't felt since before Professor Alcott's class—the suggestion that maybe I wasn't insane, maybe I wasn't cursed. That perhaps the things lurking in the dark belonged only to the dark, and daylight could still protect me.

     When I stepped outside, the house looked almost innocent. The lawn, damp with dew, shimmered like scattered glass. The trees along the driveway swayed lazily, not in menace but in rhythm with the breeze. The very road that had felt like a portal to something monstrous last night now lay stretched in front of me, silent and harmless. Even the air was different—clean, soft, and almost sweet. It was baffling. How could the world be so terrifying under the veil of night and then appear so tranquil at dawn? It was as though reality itself had mocked me, allowed me to teeter on the edge of despair only to reassemble into something gentle when the sun rose.

     I stood at the edge of the driveway, waiting, my arms wrapped loosely around myself. My knee was stiff but bearable, thanks to Troy's steady hands the night before. The bandage tugged slightly under my jeans. Still, I felt stronger, as if the morning light had patched me back together.

     The low crunch of gravel behind me pulled me from my thoughts.

     "Ready to go?"

     I turned, and there he was—Troy—pushing his motorcycle forward, the sunlight catching on its polished metal, throwing sharp flashes into my eyes. The bike was sleek, black with silver edges, the kind of machine that demanded attention. He balanced it with practiced ease, one hand steady on the handlebars, the other free at his side.

     I blinked at him, then at the bike. "We're… riding on that?"

     His brow arched, a smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth. "Something wrong with that?"

     I shook my head quickly, though my stomach twisted in a knot. "No, just—surprising, that's all."

     He chuckled under his breath and swung his leg over the bike with an effortless grace. Then, without hesitation, he reached for the helmet slung over his seat. Before I could even move, he was right in front of me, lowering it onto my head with careful precision. The gesture made me freeze, caught between the closeness of his hands and the strange gentleness in his movements. His fingers brushed against my hairline as he adjusted the strap beneath my chin. I could hardly breathe.

     Why was he being so kind to me? What did he want? And why did my heart hammer every time he came near?

     "Alright," he said softly, stepping back. "Think you can climb on?"

     I nodded, though uncertainty pulsed through me. He settled onto the bike, steadying it, waiting. I stepped closer, trying to swing my leg over, but pain lanced through my knee. I faltered. My hands hovered awkwardly in the air before instinct finally forced them forward, landing on his shoulders for balance. The warmth of him beneath my palms startled me, and I froze again, as though touching him had been some unspoken boundary I shouldn't cross.