Chain Reaction

Prologue

Eighteen Candles.

I had never counted them before, but now I am – one, two, three... up to eighteen. The flames tremble, and I watch them, feeling the warmth brush against my cheeks. It smells like vanilla and chocolate – just like always, every year. I breathe in the scent, and it feels too sweet, almost cloying, as if I've already eaten my fill of it to the point of nausea. Happiness, I suppose, is supposed to feel like that – just a little too much, so you'll remember it.

I take a breath, close my eyes, and make a wish. The same one as last year, and the year before that. University, a big city, a new life. I say it to myself as clearly as if I were reading it off a piece of paper, and for a moment, it feels like this time will be different. Like I'm almost there already, and all I have left to do is blow out the candles – and the world will bend to fit me. Funny, isn't it? I hardly believe in these wishes anymore, but every year I make the same one, as if stopping would finally kill my dream for good.

I open my eyes, and the candlelight seems brighter than it did a second ago. The warm air touches my lips, and I feel something tighten inside my chest. A breath – and I blow them out. The smoke drifts up toward the ceiling, while my dream stays lodged somewhere between my throat and my ribcage.

"Happy birthday, Astra!"

I smile, and my cheeks start to ache, but I keep it stretched across my face because I can see how much my parents need me to be happy. Mom tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers grazing my temple, and there's so much tenderness in that gesture that I almost believe everything is fine. She smells like sandalwood and oranges – the scent of my childhood, the one I breathed in when she hugged me before bed. But the vision fades as quickly as it appears. A second – and I'm back here, an adult, standing on the threshold of something I don't understand.

My little sister sits across from me and doesn't even look up. She's stabbing her fork into the slice of cake on her plate, and I can see her lips pressed into a thin line. We've never been close. She always looked at me like I'd stolen something important from her. Maybe it was our parents' attention. Maybe it was something else. I stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago.

— Happy birthday, — Lina says flatly, not looking at me.

— Thanks, — I reply, and there's no warmth in my voice. There shouldn't be. There's always been this space between us – cold, prickly, a distance neither of us tried to cross.

Mom suddenly pushes her plate aside and reaches under the napkin. I watch her pull out a small velvet box and hold it out to me.

— This is for you, — she says, and I catch the faint tremor in her voice. — I found it at a vintage shop. I thought you might like it.

She hands it to me, and I immediately notice it's heavier than it looks. I open it – and inside, against the dark velvet, lies a silver bracelet. It's old, the surface scratched, with a barely distinguishable pattern winding along its edges. I run my finger over it – I can feel every line. I lift it closer to the light, and somewhere deep inside me, a strange feeling stirs, as if I've touched this metal before, as if it remembers my hands. There used to be an inscription on the inside, but now only shadows of letters remain. I turn the bracelet over and over, as if that might reveal more meaning, but the light only catches the silver gleam. I tear my gaze away for just a second to look at my mom.

— Thank you, — I say, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. — It's really beautiful.

She smiled, but I immediately knew something was wrong. The smile didn't reach her eyes, and the way she looked at the bracelet was too long, too careful. She seemed almost afraid of it, even though she didn't say so.